Heroes of Vos
by Acteon Carolsfeld
Summary: AU/"Insatiable"-verse. Stories of those who stand behind the Crown. Starscream takes the limelight, but it's the ones behind it that give the monarch a city to rule.
1. Skywarp: I, II

**IMPORTANT NOTE:** This is an attachment fic to "_Insatiable_", comprised of little stories throughout the arc. This will also be where I post any background information I come up with about the AU for anyone interested. Most of these stories occur _before_ the current events in "Insatiable".

Disclaimer: Do not own anything canon, though I do own "Insatiable"-verse.

* * *

Skywarp

(How the Royal Trine met)

* * *

_Timeframe: before Starscream becomes of-age and leaves Vos for the Iaconian Science Academy with Skyfire_

* * *

I

As the absolute monarch of a wealthy, influential city-state on Cybertron, Crown Prince Starscream had much more power than a young Seeker his age knew what to do with. He had more than three dozens of attendants available and prepared to serve him at all times, and was surrounded by enough luxury to blind a middle-class citizen with incredulous amazement for vorns. With a flick of a wing, he could stop all activity in Vos regardless of commercial losses or economic repercussions. With a single word, he could render every flier on the planet grounded and in a low bow. He had the whole world he knew on a gemstone-embedded platter, which was precisely why when his leisure flight in a sky he owned was rudely and unexpectedly interrupted, he was _not_ a happy prince.

One klik, he was comfortably cruising the altitude reserved for royalty. The next, he was crying out in alarm in a sharp swerve to avoid crashing nosecone into something large and very much solid.

"_Argh_—!" He yelped most inelegantly, and tumbled like a sparkling in training. As soon as he righted himself, he transformed back into root mode, and searched for the obstacle that had suddenly appeared out of thin air. He did not have to look around for long. The obstacle had not moved since its initial appearance. It was cackling madly like a youngling on high-grade, clutching its abdomen while its thrusters sputtered.

"What is the meaning of this?!" Starscream shouted, his young voice especially thin and shrill. With a huff, he rose up higher, and floated toward the other flier, all the while doing an impressive show of stomping in midair. Upon his closer inspection, the flier was a Seeker, a haggardly maintained one at that. There were dark spots on the lighter parts of his frame, and his wings had scratches, but that did not stop them from twitching in hilarity as the mech continued to make a spectacle of himself.

"I asked you a question, Seeker!" Starscream snapped once again, and clenched his hands into tight little fists. His optics narrowed, and his lips curled into an incredibly pronounced sneer. The amount of contempt behind the expression was shocking, having come from a spark so young. However, it was not unexpected, not when the tri-coloured prince still had a hard time seeing beyond his perfect little universe, where any disruption to his control of it was absolutely unforgivable.

When the other Seeker, who was downright filthy and mostly purple, still had not answered him in favour of chortling with obvious mirth, Starscream's nonexistent patience evaporated in a single "poof". He bristled, his wings hiking upward. He drew his frame to its full height, and shrieked at the loudest volume he could reach:

"Answer me this instance!"

The dirty, purple Seeker shut up right away, whole body in a flinch.

"_Frag_, mech," He rubbed his audials, and sent Starscream a grimace, "You can use a spike in that mouth."

Starscream was so shocked that someone had dared to—to…_utter profanities_ right in front of his faceplate that he was actually silent for about three kliks. Then he remembered to be angry.

"How _dare_ you say such—such…inappropriate words in my presence!" Volume once again reaching beyond what was comfortable for audials and vocalizers alike, the young prince yelled, and pointed at the purple nuisance. "Do you have any idea who you're speaking to?!"

The purple nuisance continued to rub his audials, and gave the noisy, feisty little Seeker a blatant once-over with his optics. His wings perked up, and his expression morphed to that of surprise. The laughing stopped, and, pleased with the reaction, Starscream stuck out his chassis, blue hands propping up on red hips. His lips parted, prepared to give the purple Seeker the lashing of his lifetime. However, just as the first word was about to leave his mouth, he was, once again, rudely interrupted.

"Frag me sideways…haven't you got the perfect little aft for a pounding!" The foul-mouthed purple pest leered, and had the nerve-circuits to wink. Starscream froze, and was practically stunned to system failure by the audacity of the comment. He was so dismayed that he did not even have the processing power to react when the purple nuisance disappeared in a puff of purple smoke. A pair of hands suddenly groped him on the rear from behind, and nothing in the universe could convince the prince that he had just squeaked.

_A teleporter_…Starsceam only thought. He had a _teleporter_ in his city.

The hands cupped around the curve of his perky posterior, and made an indulgent squeeze. A pleased growl reached Starscream's audials, and a cockpit bumped into his back right between the wing joints.

"How about we go back to my place and put this delicious little aft to good use, hmm?" Starscream heard his molester say in a deep, snarling voice, "If there's anything I know how to do, sweetspark, it's how to have a good time…"

There was a grin in the voice, and one of the groping hands left the horrified monarch's violated rear-end. Starscream did not even have the time to think of a dignified response, for that hand came swinging down, and smacked him hard on the aft.

"—AAAARGH—!" The scream of rage and pain was so loud that a whole crowd of fliers below startled and transformed back into root mode. They looked around in attempts to find the source of such unholy shrieking, optics widened and alert, and wondered if there had been an accident. Starscream did not even care that he might be making a fool of himself in front of his citizens, screeching up a storm. He floundered gracelessly in the air, and tried his best to distance his aft from the roaming hands of his attacker.

Unfortunately, he reacted just a split klik too late. The purple menace had successfully slid an arm around his waist, and held him captive, pressing their frames together.

Starscream let out a miserable, whimpering wail. The purple Seeker was _filthy_! He struggled with all his might, which was really not all that much, and made a great fight of thrashing against his larger captor. From orders to threats, he blurted out all, but no matter what he did, the purple Seeker was not discouraged in the slightest. This meant only one option left. Starscream groaned, and lowered his faceplate to hide his flushing cheek plates.

_This is _so_ humiliating_, he thought as he sent out an emergency hail to the interior guards.

"Warmin' up to the idea?" His attacker obviously read his momentary stall of violent wiggling as compliance, and Starscream cringed, making a face to no one in particular.

"Do you honestly not know who I am?" He asked, lips pouting in a sulk, and tilted his helm to send the Seeker behind him a dark, disbelieving glare. The Seeker only stared back at him, and frowned in a manner Starscream could only describe as stupid.

"No, why?" The purple teleporter said, and shrugged before making an inelegant snort. "Just 'cause you're pretty doesn't mean everyone need'a know who you are, little aft."

Starscream was honestly too astonished to even think of a clever, biting reply. How in the pits was it possible for any flier on Cybertron to not know who he was?! Before he could formulate a response through the haze of incredulous disbelief, however, distant sounds of roaring jet engines came within auditory range. The purple Seeker tensed. His optics flashed brighter with worry, and his helm turned in the direction the noise was coming from.

Starscream nudged at the arm still wrapped around his waist. A terrifying thought seeped through his processors, and made his spark quiver in dawning panic.

What if his captor was planning on kidnapping him…?!

Fortunately, before the thought could properly scare him and instill panic, the larger Seeker let go. Without another word, the arm slipped away, and before Starscream could turn and ask the purple flier just who in the pits he was, the teleporter was gone. There was a faint, distinct "pop", followed by a puff of purple smoke. When the smoke cleared, it was as though the Seeker was never here at all. Starscream was left hovering in the air by himself, aft stinging with shame. A team of interior guards, five Fighter Jets in total, appeared around a tower, and came barreling toward him.

The quintet of big, intimidating military builds transformed in perfect unison when they reached appropriate proximity. They kept a respectable distance, and curtly bowed, wings fully displayed in a gesture of subservience. Their right hands were placed right on top of their canopies, and their left stayed glued to their sides. They stayed hovering in silence, and did not straighten until excused by the young prince.

"Your Highness, are you hurt?" The team leader floated a little closer, keen, yellow optics giving the small Seeker a quick scan.

"No, I-I'm—…No…" Starscream murmured in a tiny voice, and grimaced at how spooked he sounded. He gave his helm a minute shake, and pulled up his wings to fan out at a more confident angle. "No, I'm not hurt," He repeated in a much firmer voice, and plastered on an expression he believed serious. "Regardless, I want an investigation on the identity of my assailant. He acted out of conduct, and I want him properly disciplined."

With his red optics narrowed, the young monarch's faceplate gained a steely look. "He's a teleporter, so it shouldn't be difficult to find out who he is. Once you obtain him, I want you to bring him to me." A small smirk, almost sadistic with glee, graced his pair of curved lips. "I want to see his expression when he realizes just who he had without permission touched."

"Affirmative, Sire. Your orders have been forwarded to Commander Stormstrike." The Fighter Jet bowed once more, and Starscream nodded, pleased and dismissive. After arranging two of his officers as escort for the lone monarch, the captain of the team excused himself and his subordinates. "All hail Prince Starscream!" He called out as he transformed, flying away to fulfill his duty. With a quiet sigh, the young Seeker watched the trio of jets become smaller and smaller into distance, and rubbed his faceplate before beckoning at his newly designated guards.

"I'm returning to my tower. You may accompany me until then." Without waiting for their responses, Starscream turned around and transformed. The two Fighter Jets followed his example, and did a fair job at keeping up with his lighter speed. Before long, the young prince was back in his tower, safe, confident, and curious about his attacker.

The purple Seeker had an ability that was not only extremely rare, but previously unheard of in Vos. Based on the records at the Central Archives, the last mech capable of teleportation had deactivated vorns ago in the Great Quintessonic War. Starscream was pleased that such a unique asset was here within his city, within his grasp. The only unfortunate factor was that the ability had fallen into the hands of a flier obviously undeserving of such a blessed gift.

Regardless, the Seeker must be found. Starscream was certain the teleporter would make a useful personal escort, _after_ proper punishment and disciplinary training chiseled away his insubordinate tendencies, of course. The young prince was not going to allow great potential to go to waste, even if the procedure lasted vorns long. For a worthy enough investment, he was willing to wait.

Starscream wanted the best out of this new turn of events, so the best the purple Seeker was going to be.

* * *

II

Thundercracker knew life around Vos was about to become very turbulent the klik Prince Starscream waltzed into the Grand Hall, complaining at full volume about how much his aft stung.

Thundercracker winced.

Allow him to rephrase.

He knew life around Vos was about to become very turbulent the klik Prince Starscream waltzed into the Grand Hall, liquid red optics containing that sharp glimmer whenever his highly intelligent processors were up to something incredibly ambitious yet stupid.

Thundercracker restrained himself from outright sighing. He should not have thought such a thing about his trine leader and ruling monarch. But then again, really, Starscream was too excitable and egoistic for his own good sometimes. Fortunately for Vos, most ideas Starscream came up with were usually on the more ingenious side. Problems only arose whenever not-so-ingenious ideas popped up, because the tri-coloured Seeker, too full of himself, could never see the sheer absurdity of his own ponderings.

…Like that one time he demanded every tower of Vos to adorn a colour of his paintjob.

Well, ok, that was when he was younger and much more prone to spontaneity. However, Skyfire, the Royal Intended, really did not have to encourage him by ordering the largest batch of paint ever purchased in the history of Cybertron just to dote on the Seeker prince.

Sometimes Thundercracker was _sure_ Skyfire took some form of sick amusement at seeing everyone scurry around trying to fulfill Starscream's impossible wishes.

"Where's Skyfire? My sore aft needs tending to!" Starscream announced, hands on his hips and wings held up in pride. Thundercracker winced again, and, this time, allowed himself to sigh. Starscream did not know subtlety even if it smacked him right in the nosecone, and, if the expression on his dark faceplate was any indication, the Vosian monarch was completely serious about his inquiry too.

The service staff immediately started running around, trying to figure out where the white Space Shuttle was. A few kliks passed, and still not answer. Starscream was getting irritated by the lack of result, a customary sneer quickly forming on his pretty faceplate. Luckily for everyone in the Grand Hall, Skyfire chose that exact moment to emerge out of a doorway. With an amazing demonstration of bipolarity, Starscream's unpleasant expression instantly morphed into something spark-meltingly adorable.

"Skyfire—!" The young prince let out a hurt, pinched whine, and took off toward the white Space Shuttle, arms outstretched for a hug. Skyfire paused, and looked up from his musings. Thundercracker could practically see Skyfire's plating unraveling as he dissembled into a pile of gooey parts at the teary pout Starscream sported. The Head Scientist of Vos was struck speechless by the sheer _cute_ the tri-coloured Seeker was abundantly exuding, and reacted only when the smaller flier made a leap toward him.

Thundercracker palmed his faceplate at the overly affectionate display happening right in the middle of the Grand Hall. When was Skyfire going to realize that Starscream was not, by all means, a naive, delicate little youngling anymore? Strangely enough, Thundercracker seemed to be the only one frowning at the way Starscream shamelessly manipulated Skyfire into abandoning all duties for the rest of the cycle to rub his sore aft better. Everyone else was smiling and cooing at the scene, wings fluttering about how charming the future royal couple was.

Thundercracker sighed again, and turned away from the sight, walking silently toward one of the side doors.

As usual, no one noticed him leaving the Grand Hall, not even his own trine leader.

Well, that was not exactly fair to Starscream. Not even the Crown Prince could be trine leader if there was no trine. Besides, Thundercracker was never one to enjoy attention, so he really shouldn't have minded being spared from Starscream's notice. At least _he_ was not the one being asked to rub Starscream's aft. His wings jerked, and his cheek-plates burned. He was _very_ glad that he was not the one asked to rub Starscream's aft, actually.

Eventually, the blue Seeker attributed his somewhat souring opinion toward his sovereign to his continuous lack of a trine. Most Seekers his age should've had at least a vorn or two of flight experience with their trine mates already. However, Thundercracker's trine still lacked a third member. Without a left wing by Starscream, Thundercracker always felt exposed and off-balanced when they flew. The left side of the sky, not covered by another Seeker, was daunting, unfamiliar ground. Watching both sides of his would-be trine leader for danger gave the blue Seeker a lot of unnecessary stress.

Not that he needed to watch for danger, of course. Vos was a haven for fliers. Unfortunately, such coding was instinctual. Thundercracker could never stop himself.

Starscream was not making the whole ordeal any easier either. The short-tempered monarch was very high-maintenance and difficult. The task of living up to his expectations as a trine mate was close to downright impossible, which made the chance of finding a suitable third discouragingly slim. Thundercracker had long ago given up on bringing potential candidates for Starscream to scorn over. The poor, hopeful Seekers always left the Grand Hall in tears after a grueling session under the skeptical optics and scathing glossa of their Crown Prince.

Thundercracker always felt guilty whenever he thought about it. He often wondered just how many of those Seekers he had doomed to perpetual lack of self-esteem.

For the rest of the cycle, Thundercracker stayed in his office at the Royal Tower. He worked, tending to his duties, which mostly entailed smoothing over matters with those who Starscream unintentionally, or perhaps intentionally, offended or upset. Being the diplomatic advisor of Vos was proving to be a much more processor-ache-inducing task than anticipated. Freshly graduated, Thundercracker was immediately ordered to take over his carrier-creator's post by the Crown, without any cushion period to adapt. Sometimes, the blue Seeker was honestly amazed that Vos had yet collapsed under the impulsive directions of its ruler.

Thundercracker was so engrossed in what he was doing that he'd completely forgotten to check his message center, something everyone on duty should do at least once a joor. He didn't realize a state-wide lockdown had been issued by the aforementioned ruler until he was trying to return home.

"What do you mean I cannot leave for my tower?" His wings engaged in an agitated dance as he glared at the poor guard trying to do his job. "I think it's more than apparent that I'm not a filth-covered purple Seeker capable of teleportation!" He snapped at the Fighter Jet standing by the door to the flight deck, and unleashed his whole cycle of pent-up frustration. The Fighter Jet did not deserve being called a variety of creative, unflattering names, but Thundercracker was on a schedule. That schedule did not allow much room for hopping about on one's thrusters trying to get to the sky.

Thundercracker was planning on surprising his carrier-creator with a nice cube of vintage Iaconian high-grade as celebration for the old mech's creation cycle. His carrier-creator, a Space Shuttle by the designation of Thunderblaze, was currently visiting a sibling unit on the other side of Vos. He wasn't due back till several joors later, which gave Thundercracker just enough time to make a hasty trip to Iacon and come back. Receiving permission from the Security Council for leave from Vos was difficult enough. He was on an extremely tight schedule, and he definitely did not have the time to stand around arguing with a stubborn Fighter Jet.

Just short of punching the guard straight in the faceplate, he was finally able to talk his way out of being confined in the Royal Tower after pulling rank and contacting Stormstrike for confirmation.

"You know Fighter Jets. Most of them are thicker in the helm than a Cargo in the chassis." Stormstrike commented good-naturedly as he led a grumbling Thundercracker through the labyrinth. "Just be glad you don't have to work with any of them. Once Bladeflight sets his processors on something, it takes nothing short of a direct order from the Crown or a miracle from Primus to change his mind."

Thundercracker was glad he was in alt-mode, because he was certain he would have blushed when he realized just how much of a sparkling he was being. Running his vocalizer off was very unbecoming, especially to an aged flier like Stormstrike, who had been friends with a Fighter Jet for most of his life. Murmuring one thing or another, he brushed off the topic in favour of something new. He was relieved to find that Stormstrike had just enough interest in Iaconian high-grade to carry on the conversation until they reached the exit to the labyrinth.

With instructions for the blue Seeker to directly comm. him upon return, the Striker sent him off, making a wave before activating the closing sequence for the gates. Thundercracker hovered in the air, and watched in awe as the massive panels slid shut and blended seamlessly into the labyrinth wall. With an echoing clunk, he was closed off against his own city. There was an almost inaudible buzz, and the force field was once again erected.

Facing the imposing superstructure made Thundercracker nervous. Giving his helm a slight shake, he turned away with a swift transformation sequence, and sped off in the direction of Iacon.

By third klik of his take-off, the blue Seeker had already reached full speed, thrusters making his signature boom that shook the very air he traveled on. He kept his flight path to a straight line, and did not take any time to indulge in elaborate aerobatics. However, despite the lack of fancy flying, his worries and burdens began to ease. He soared high, piercing the currents, and felt his mood increasingly lighten until he was very much content with his life.

Midway to Iacon, Thundercracker took a rest at a refuel station. All grounder-pounders in the area stopped what they were doing and looked up as he sailed above their helms, circling back before gliding down. Transforming and landing smoothly on his thrusters, he stretched his wings, and walked toward the small energon outlet. Numerous blatant stares followed his movements, especially the lazy waving of his wings. Doing his best to ignore them, he dipped his helm, and trotted through the door.

If he were more honest with himself, he would've admitted that he enjoyed the attention he was getting from all mechs in sight. After all, Seekers were naturally eager for admiration. However, Thundercracker was, by spark, a shy flier. When the cargo transports he passed sent him appreciative whistles, he couldn't even tell them to stop, cheekplates flushing as he scuttled to find a vacant table.

"Welcome to 'Friendly Energon'. Designation: Arcee. I'll be your server-bot of the joor. What can I get for you?"

A loud clatter, and a small menu-pad landed in front of him, a discord ending to the monotone narration. A rather slim grounder had strolled up to his table, and was now staring at him, one hand propped up on cocked hips. Thundercracker sneaked a glance at the petit two-wheeler, who looked back with an expression of boredom with a dash of expectation. He flinched when the dark blue mech planted a hand on the table, and returned his curious gaze with a flat glare plus an arching brow ridge.

"I may be smaller than what you're used to seeing, but that doesn't mean I can't kick your aft if your hand lands anywhere inappropriate, flier." The smooth, cold voice droned with a slight threatening snarl, and Thundercracker startled, cheekplates once again flaming with heat.

"I—I wasn't—"

"-So what d'ya want?" Arcee cut in, leaning back to prop both hands on his hips. "You only got four options on there. Get on with it."

"…Uhh—Uhm…" The blue Seeker stammered, but another voice interrupted before he could pick up the menu-pad.

"AC, be nice!" A bellow came ringing out of the distiller chamber in the back.

"Frag you, Ginger!" Arcee shouted over his shoulder, and several rowdy grounders in the refuel station chuckled.

"I ain't Ginger!" The coarse voice called back.

"You were when I was bangin' ya last night!"

Laughter roared inside the small outlet, and Thundercracker hid his faceplate behind the menu-pad. Luckily, the vulgar banter ended as abruptly as it began. When the two-wheeler turned back to Thundercracker, there was an amused smirk on his pretty faceplate. His gaze was still somewhat piercing. However, the glimmer behind it was almost amiable.

"So, what'll it be?" The small grounder jerked his chin toward the menu-pad. "You can't be too picky, I'm afraid. We don't see much of your kind around here, so what we've got are gonna be tough on the glossa for you. Donno, you might like it. Something different from sweetened grease."

Thundercracker nodded, and gave the menu a quick glance. Indeed, there was no refined energon. Brow ridges furrowing in concentration, he tried to discern what each listed option meant. Deciding that 'tank-warmer' sounded safe enough, compared to 'sparkler', 'buzz-bomb', and 'barely legal', he ordered a cube, and fiddled with his fingers as Arcee swaggered away with the menu-pad.

Perhaps he should have planned this trip a little better and brought his own cube.

Most of the other customers were still peering at him, some going as far as trying to garner his attention. Feeling extremely self-conscious, the blue Seeker turned to the window, and became very interested in looking out at the view. He practically scrutinized an unknowing truck-former, who was picking out chunks of debris stuck in his grille. Long commutes were not kind on the frame. The mech looked like he'd just climbed out of a dump.

Thundercracker was jolted out of his staring when a cube of steaming energon was slammed down on the table. Vents spluttering and optics wide, he looked up, and only managed to catch a mischievous grin before Arcee sauntered off, shoulders shaking in giggles. Grumbling about rude grounders, the blue Seeker poked at the cube. The vaguely glowing fuel swished, and its wafting aroma did not contain anything suspicious. It looked safe enough, which was what ultimately convinced him to take a small sip.

Only to hack in coughs as the energon burned down his fuel intake.

"Th-This—This is high-grade!" Flustered and indignant, he pointed at the cube and called the server-bot. "I expected crude taste, not cheap liquor!" He snapped, wings twitching on his back.

Arcee, who had burst into laughter much like everyone else in the refuel station, instantly sobered upon hearing the latter of Thundercracker's exclamations. "Now look here, ya big sparkling," The two-wheeler scowled, optics narrowing, "what we serve here might be a little too 'crude' for your sophisticated taste sensors, but what we've got is legal, alright? So drink it or beat it!"

"Wh—Why I'd—" Thundercracker spluttered some more, which was clearly not what Arcee wanted to hear. The petit grounder strutted toward his table, a snarl on his lips, and slammed down his slender hands.

"Drink it or beat it, flier! So what's it gonna be, huh?" The server-bot loomed forward, a dark cloud of menace hovering over his slim form. Thundercracker balked, scooting back to distance himself from the scary two-wheeler. Unfortunately, he only cornered himself further into the booth.

A long, tension-filled silence hung in the refuel station. When Thundercracker finally regained his voice, it was croaky, and whispered:

"…A-Are you with the—…the Kaon Underground…?"

Under normal circumstances, Thundercracker was a Seeker of great courage and a rich, warm voice that left many fliers infatuated and enthralled. Having his personal space invaded by a fragged off ground pounder while stuck close-quarters, however, both admirable traits went flying out the window. The blue Seeker gaped in fear, vocalizer pinching to emit the tiniest of squeaks. Terrifying stories from sparklinghood surged from his memory banks, telling of the horrifying consequences of Seekers captured by the enigmatic criminal group from the deepest pits of Kaon. If he was lucky, he might be sold as a pleasure-bot. If not…

He shuddered, and tried not to think about it.

For a lengthy, suspenseful moment, Arcee only stared at him, a look of incomprehension slowly overtaking his previously angry features. Eventually, he seemed to understand. He snorted with his vents, and curled his lips into an annoyed sneer.

"Oh _please_," the server-bot pushed away, and gave the Seeker a once-over, "I'd rather frag you than scrap you." With that, he was gone, snapping around on his heels and striding away with an irritated air about him. "Just pay up and get outta here, flier!" He called over his shoulder with an evaluative glance. "Your kind ain't welcomed."

Left alone, Thundercracker hastily downed the cube. It burned his fuel intake, and made his optics tear up with coolant. Discarding the empty container himself just to avoid another encounter with the distressing server-bot, the blue Seeker scuttled toward the exit, and scanned his credit-chip on his way out.

He dashed out the door, a deep cycle of air leaving his vents as open sky greeted him. Not taking any more time to dawdle around the place, he ran a few steps, and leapt high into the air. Transforming seamlessly, he engaged his flight system. He shot off into the sky, and a thundering sonic boom announced his top speed. Only then did he begin to relax.

Ascending to the altitude he preferred did not take long. With the wind caressing his wings, the disagreeable encounter at the refuel station was quickly stowed to the back of his processors. Thundercracker was once again a happy Seeker, cruising the sky. He was pleased to find that, upon checking his chronometer, he was actually a little ahead of schedule. He started taking minor liberties, doing loops and barrel rolls. Time passed much faster when enjoying oneself, which was why when the buildings of Iacon turned up on his radar, Thundercracker was a bit surprised. Starting to descend, he comm.-ed the distiller about his impending arrival, and flew toward west of the city.

Quantum was one of the most prestigious high-grade distillers on Cybertron. The mech was ancient, and often moved at a speed that made even the most patient of mechs anxious on their peds. His shop, rumoured as being as old as the monuments from the First Dynasties, was located in the more rundown district of Iacon, far from the newer, taller buildings that sparkled under whichever sun Cybertron happened to travel past. It was easily overlooked if one was not keenly seeking it, with a lopsided banner that was more faded than its walls. However, it was one of the most visited places in Old Iacon, bringing life to the otherwise lifeless, abandoned street.

Thundercracker landed smoothly, gaining the attention of more than several pairs of optics. These ground pounders were more discreet about their curious staring than the cargo transports, however, being of a more respectable class. Some nodded courteously to the blue Seeker, and one of them, a tall, sharp-looking mech, actually held the door. Despite the general seediness of the neighbourhood, Thundercracker felt right at home, being treated delicately but at polite distance. He maneuvered past well-polished corporate executives, and chatted briefly with politicians who recognized him. One met the top cache of Cybertronian society in Quantum's little shop. It was surprising how many wealthy, powerful mechs were willing to crowd themselves in the tiny space just to personally retrieve their order of high-grade.

Reaching the counter, Thundercracker sent a gracious smile toward the aged, stout grounder staring fixatedly at the screen of the terminal. The newer computers always confused Quantum to near system failure, so gaining the old mech's attention took a few kliks. When the distiller finally noticed the Seeker looking at him with wide, expectant optics, he startled a little, and peered at Thundercracker's faceplate. A long moment of silence passed before a look of recognition flickered over Quantum's features.

"Ahh, there you are," The ancient mech croaked slowly, offering a hand toward the Seeker, "Thundershooter, eager as always."

And, as always, Quantum mistook him for the flier the distiller had been friends with many vorns ago before the Golden Age.

Thundercracker had long ago given up trying to correct the misidentification. Thundershooter was, coincidentally, also a blue Seeker. He was a soldier who lost his spark during the Great Quintessonic War. Thundercracker saw no reason to correct Quantum, not wanting to repeatedly inform him that his friend had perished.

"Quantum, old friend, how are you?" Thundercracker held the aged hand in his own, and gently squeezed. Quantum's orange optics flashed, one brighter than the other, and he smiled.

"Not as well as you, apparently," The old distiller laughed, a raspy sound thin and breathy. "Your grip is still strong, I see. One of these cycles, you'll tell me your secret."

Thundercracker's smile dropped a little, and his brow ridges furrowed in concern.

"You can always get a few upgrades, Quantum." The Seeker leaned forward, and politely lowered his voice. "You have more than enough credits for an entire new frame."

"Ahh, yes, of course," Quantum nodded, and sent him an indulgent smile. "But I'm not so vain to be bothered. Besides, these rusty gears know things."

Thundercracker did not have the time to ask what the ancient mech had meant. Quantum chuckled a little, nodding and muttering to himself, and turned around, heading to the back to retrieve the blue Seeker's order. Within a breem, a record time for the old grounder, he remerged, carrying an intricately decorated box. Carefully handing it to the flier, he recited the same instructions he always gave regarding proper storage of his high-grade. Thundercracker listened attentively, and promised to do as told.

The Seeker stayed until he absolutely must make his trip back to Vos. Bidding the distiller farewell, he waded through the crowd, and ventured out the door.

Carefully placing the high-grade into subspace, Thundercracker transformed, and took off. He rose above the buildings, and swerved around various high bridges. However, before he got to the sky, something at the very edges of his optical range caught his attention. It was a bright flash of light, and, curious, he tilted his nosecone, stumbling into sight of something, or rather some_one_, he would have never expected to see in Old Iacon.

The flash of light came from a polished pair of wings. There was a Seeker, mostly black and purple with white hips, down on the ground, in tight embrace with a grounder. Thundercracker could not see the Seeker's faceplate, but, even from a distance, he could tell that his kin was squirming in the thick arms trapping his frame. The broad, beautiful black wings, with striking white and purple stripes, were fluttering in what could only be agitation, while the Seeker's black thighs, though strong, were forced apart by the grounder's knee.

In other words, the Seeker was being molested.

Thundercracker was so horrified that he instantly transformed back into root-mode, lips hanging open in a quiet exclaim of shock as he hovered in the air. There shouldn't be another flier out of Vos aside from him in the first place, and yet…here the purple Seeker was, thrusters deep in trouble. Without a single klik of hesitance, Thundercracker shot downward in a fluid transformation. He soared toward the pair, spark strumming with protective urgency to save his fellow Seeker.

His trademark sonic boom alerted the pair of his arrival. In less than a breem, he was close enough to see every flake on the grounder's paintjob. He promptly changed back to root-mode, the action smooth and elegant. Landing gracefully on his thrusters, he hiked up his wings, and pointed determinedly at the large mech with a righteous, unfaltering glare.

"Unhand him at once, ground pounder! You are partaking in active illegal transgressions against a citizen of Vos. There will be severe consequences should you persist!"

The last of his words rang in the empty streets. Somewhere in the distance, a bot dumped garbage into a disposal chute.

The pair stared at him.

Neither of them moved.

The silence grew stale. Thundercracker looked between the two, circuits beginning to tingle with the onset of bewilderment.

Then the grounder turned to the purple Seeker.

"This your friend?" He asked.

"Nope." The purple Seeker shrugged. "Never met 'im before."

The two turned and stared at Thundercracker some more, until the blue flier became so flustered that his wings started to twitch.

Why were they looking at him like that? _They_ were ones who—

"Hey," The purple Seeker broke the awkward silence, casting an attractive grin at the grounder, "why don't I meet you inside later, uhh…Crash?"

"Clash."

"That's what I said."

The dirty mech with the flaking paintjob raised a brow-ridge, but he only sent Thundercracker another glance, and reluctantly let go of the pretty pair of black wings. "I'll see you inside." He called over his shoulder, and strode through a door that led into a dingy, dark establishment that could only be a bar of some sort.

The purple Seeker jutted out a hip and waved after the grounder. However, as soon as the lumbering mech disappeared from view, he groaned, posture sagging, and the flirtatious glint evaporated from his red optics.

"Aargh—Primus's cogs!" He grimaced, and reached for his peds. "This slag gives me one pit of a thruster ache." His fingers squeezed around one of his heels, and—

Thundercracker's optics flew wide.

"It—…It _came off_!" Wings jolting in surprise, the blue Seeker gaped, and pointed at the thruster that was yanked off to reveal…another thruster, one that was shorter.

"Oh, this?" The other flier hopped on one ped while he took off the other one. "It's fake. Extensions." He waved them in the air, and shuttered one of his optics in a wink. "Makes my aft look better." He turned, wiggling his aforementioned aft, which was when everything clicked in Thundercracker's processors.

"You!" He pointed at the grinning faceplate, "You're that—that teleporter Prince Starscream is after!" Bristling, the diplomat propped his hands on his hips. "You got the whole city in lockdown!"

The purple Seeker stopped wiggling his aft, and straightened to stare. "…Whaaaat?" He rubbed the back of his helm, leaning back in confusion.

Thundercracker spluttered. "What do you mean '_what_'?"

A blank stare.

"You—" Incredulous, the blue Seeker openly gaped. "Do you…not know what you did?" He shook his helm, optics rounded and palms raised. "How can you not know what you did?!"

"Uhhh, what?" The purple one made a face, and scooted back a little. "What'd I do?" He sent Thundercracker an apprehensive once-over, fingers absentmindedly scratching the side of his neck cables.

"Well, you—y-you—" Thundercracker stuttered, cheekplates warming. "You—…you _molested_ him!" He hissed out in a whisper.

The teleporter froze, and actually looked alarmed for a split klik. "The frag? Since when did I—" He suddenly stopped, realization dawning to his faceplate. "…Awww, no!" He straightened, arms falling to dangle at the sides. "That was _him_? Damn!" He looked away in shock. "Well, slag," He grimaced, "I wanted to berth him, too."

Thundercracker was stunned speechless. He didn't know how to respond, optics growing to such size that the edges were starting to hurt.

"-Wh—_What_—?!" He finally managed to squeeze out.

The purple Seeker didn't even notice. He was silent for a while, then perked up as he seemed to have noticed something.

"Wait," He turned back to Thundercracker, and pointed at the diplomat, "If the whole city's in lockdown, how'd _you_ get out?"

Was that even important?!

Thundercracker's optics became wider.

"Ohhhhh _no_," The teleporter exclaimed, "You must be someone important!" A hissing intake of a breath. "That's just too bad…You're a pretty one."

"Wh—Wha—…?!" Thundercracker was on the verge of squeaking, and it took a whole lot of utter disbelief for him to squeak. "How can you—" He huffed out a cycle of air, "How can you be so…_indifferent_ about this entire thing?! Do you not comprehend the severity of your situation?"

"_What_?" The purple Seeker made a face that looked suspiciously like a pout. "I saw a cute aft and dove for it. What's the big deal?"

Thundercracker's optics bent reality right then as it stretched even bigger. He gaped at the teleporter, unable to compute just how anyone can be so—

He shook his helm, and spoke before he could forget just how to:

"…Who—…Who _are_ you?"

The purple Seeker did not answer right away, optics narrowing as they peered into Thundercracker's. Then he shrugged, and flashed the diplomat a lazy grin.

"Mechs around here call me 'Starsparkle'." He opened his arms, and tilted back his helm.

"_Starsparkle_?"

That _had_ to be a fake designation.

"Yep," The grin grew wider, "Took it from our darlin' little prince."

Now that was just offensive.

"The Crown Prince's designation is 'Starscream'." Thundercracker finally snapped out of his seemingly eternal gape, and made a disapproving frown.

"Yeah, well, I had to make some changes." Another shrug. "Ain't nobody gonna come see a dancer with a designation like 'Starscream', perky wings."

P-Perky—

Thundercracker felt his faceplate surge with heat, and hastily turned away. "Perky wings" was borderline profanity, only uttered by those of the lower towers. While it was often used to describe a beautiful flier, it could never shake off its sexual connotations, since the "perk" it referred to only happened during the throes of overload. No one has ever dared to say such a word in the blue Seeker's company before, and if the quiet snickers were any indication, the teleporter said it exactly for that reason alone.

Telling apart the classes in Vos was often as simple as a curse-word.

Thundercracker squirmed on his thrusters, and sent small glances at the purple Seeker. The purple Seeker kept trying to catch such glances, scooting closer until his energy field pressed like a sheet of warmth against the diplomat's back. Thundercracker shuffled away. The teleporter followed. When a sneaky hand pinched the bottom of a blue-striped wing, the noble has finally had enough, jumping back and halting the advances with an arm.

"That grounded mech you were eloped with earlier," He blurted out, hoping to divert the purple Seeker's amorous intentions, "W-Was he one of your—…" The noble frowned. What did one call the mechs who— "p-patrons? Was he one of your patrons?" He sent a glance at the broken glyphs on top of the shady-looking door. "You—…um…" Thundercracker squinted. What in the pits did that say? "You…_dance_…for him…?"

"Pfft, nah," The teleporter laughed, "can't dance worth slag." He backed away a little, giving the blue Seeker more breathing room. "But I'm a favourite anyways. As long as I flutter a bit and show 'em my port, they go home happy, I go home with their credits."

Suddenly, everything made sense: the nature of the dark, dingy establishment, the thruster extensions, and why the Seeker allowed the grounder to touch him in such manners. The realization stabbed Thundercracker right in the spark chamber. The flustered heat inside his chassis chilled, and there was a throb, one that caused his expression to sober and fall to a frown.

"And you're…okay with that?" He asked.

The purple Seeker looked back at him, then averted his optics with a small jerk of his helm. "I'm okay with makin' a living." He said. "The family unit ain't got much, and I haven't exactly the quickest processors in Vos, but I'm a Seeker, and I can teleport, so I thought: 'hey, since ground pounders find'ya hot…'." A careless shrug, one that clashed with the slight tension in the beautiful, black wings with the purple and white stripes.

Thundercracker's brow ridges dipped further. He looked down, the throb strumming harder into a potent ache.

"Hey." A light-sparked call broke the silence, and the blue Seeker looked up. The teleporter wore a smirk, and his red optics glittered, bright with mischief and certain warmth. "Aren't you gonna arrest me for my uhh…what was the word?" He thought for a brief moment, and the smirk became a grin, "my '_illegal transgressions_'?"

Thundercracker almost groaned. Thinking back, his abrupt, heroic arrival of rescue must've been so incredibly silly. The blue Seeker shifted on his peds, and felt his cheekplates warm again. "…I—…Um…" He mumbled, wings twitching, and looked at everywhere but the teleporter.

"N-No," He finally said, "I—I really was just—…" He looked away, and squirmed a few steps back. "Well…I should start heading back to Vos." He let out a sigh, optics aimed toward the horizon. "It's my creator's spark-cycle, you see, so I'm really just here to get a present in preparation for the evening—"

"-Oh, yeah, yeah," The purple Seeker interrupted with a nod, and made a small wave, "you go now. Do whatever."

The words felt curt. Thundercracker turned to face the teleporter, and caught the red optics in a long gaze.

"…Um, alright…" He said, but he did not move from the spot.

Silence hung between them. The purple Seeker was the first to glance away and turn his back.

Thundercracker's spark squeezed inside his chassis.

"Wait!" His intakes hitched.

The teleporter paused, and quirked his helm, optics curious.

"…W-Will I…" Thundercracker could feel his fuel pump quickening. "Will I—…see you again…?"

The purple Seeker stared.

"What, ya wanna bang me?" He asked.

Flames overtook the diplomat's faceplate. Thundercracker practically jumped on his thrusters, and felt his optics widen once more. "Wh—What—?!" He felt his vocalizer pinch. "I-I—_No!_"

The other flier burst into laughter, and waved aside the blue Seeker's busy spluttering. "Nah, I'm flattered, really." He sniggered through his words, "Though I _am_ sorry to inform you, perky," A dramatic huff of a sigh, "I don't warm berths for tower-tops."

"…Oh…"

Thundercracker hated to admit it, but he was…actually a little disappointed.

A long silence.

"…Buuuut I guess if it were for _you_…" The purple Seeker continued, giving Thundercracker a once-over coupled with a leer, "I guess if you pay enough, I wouldn't mind at all to—"

"Wh—_What_?!" That was even more alarming, so much so that anger bubbled from the usually calm diplomat's spark. "—N-_No_—!" He shook his helm. "I _refuse_ to treat you like a—a _shareware_!" He stammered, struggling with words. "How can you—…How can you even speak of yourself in such a manner?! You are a flier, a Seeker, a citizen of Vos!" He shouted, "You're not—…Y-You're not at all—"

"-Dirty, used, fragged in every position at least three times in the past vorn?" The lopsided grin on the purple Seeker's faceplate was painful to see. "I'm pretty shameless, t'be honest. I don't feel bad as long as I get paid." He spoke as though narrating another flier's life. "So it's okay, really." He finished with a shrug, "I'm not smart enough to feel bad."

Thundercracker could not speak. He looked at the teleporter, spark a tight little knot deep inside his chassis. The pair of red, shimmering optics met his gaze, but it soon jerked away, pointing toward the shabby door with the broken glyphs. The smile remained on his lips, expression light on a handsome face, but seeing it hurt, stinging pinpricks within the spark chamber.

Thundercracker felt his wings tremble.

"…But—…" He looked down. "What does that even _mean_…?"

There was a long silence, and then a sigh. "It means _you_ should start headin' back to Vos." Pedfalls approached. "C'mon, hop." A hand smacked Thundercracker hard on the aft. "That expensive high-grade of yours can't weather subspace for long, y'know."

Thundercracker's optics grew round yet again, and his helm snapped up in surprise. "H-How did you—" He began, a hand rising to point, but the purple Seeker beat him with an explanation before he could, nudging him further away from the bar.

"A proper substandard citizen always knows when the good stuff's around." He said, and chuckled, hand still patting the blue Seeker's aft. "I like you, perky," He kept pushing the diplomat, "so you bet I'll be seein' you again."

"-W-Wait—" Thundercracker wiggled, and battled the push. He swirled around, and clutched onto the teleporter's arms, the gesture surprising even himself. "Wait—!"

The purple Seeker startled a little, optics rounding.

They looked at one another.

"…I-I—" The noble said, "…I'm Thundercracker."

Silence grew heavy as the teleporter simply stared.

Then he smiled.

"Skywarp." He answered, optics shimmering under the setting sun.

Then his smile stretched into a grin.

"Well frag _me_," He laughed, and nudged Thundercracker on the nose. "I'm _definitely_ seein' _you_ again."

With another laugh, he was gone, leaning away and disappearing in a puff of purple smoke. Thundercracker jumped at the popping noise, lips parted with words yet uttered. His digits still tingled with lingering warmth, where, only moments before, they had been firm against smooth, strong plating.

Thundercracker shuttered his optics. Closing his mouth, he bit his lips in thought, and looked down at his hands. On them were tiny smudges of cheap polish, particles of glitter so large that they were visible even under normal vision. However, he only smiled, before transforming and shooting up into the evening sky.

He didn't know how Skywarp was planning on finding him, but he was looking forward to it already.

* * *

**Notes:** Meh, not the best I've done, but I do hope it still entertained. If anyone's noticed a shift in quality (what little there are) in the story, that's because most of it was written some time ago while the rest was hastily drafted. Sorry. XD

Happy New Year('s Eve if you're in the later time zones like me), everyone! Have a wonderful 2013, and may all your wishes come true. It's almost been a year since I'd started posting "Insatiable", and goodness, what a great year it's been! I'm so happy to have met all of you, and it still makes me grin to think that you actually like reading my stories, haha! You're so good to me, you have no idea, so here's a New Year's present to you! I know some of you have been wondering about how the Royal Trine met, and hopefully this answers your questions.

Now, Arcee: As you may have noticed, in the story, I used male-pronouns when addressing her. This is simply because, prior to interactions with organics, I don't see why Cybertronians would differentiate themselves into separate genders when they don't have such things in the fist place. I decided to use her Prime design for this verse, since I like her blue-self more than the pink-explosion.

Reviews would be lovely if you have the time. Thanks for reading!

Now go celebrate the coming of my birthday.

8D


	2. Thundercracker: I-V

Disclaimer: Please refer to previous chapter. It hasn't changed.

* * *

Thundercracker

(Without obstacles, there is no trine)

* * *

_Timeframe: After the official formation of the Royal Trine; while Starscream is attending the Iaconian Science Academy with Skyfire_

* * *

I

"Thundercracker?"

Thundercracker looked up from his data-pad, a sheepish expression on his faceplate.

"I'm sorry, carrier. I know you said no data-pads at the table. I'll put it away."

The Space Shuttle smiled, and waved the matter aside. "Don't worry about that. It's something else I wish to talk to you about."

The Seeker blinked. He subspaced the data-pad, and took a small sip from his cube.

His carrier-creator, Thunderblaze, took a cycle of air, and laced his fingers together. "I think," He began, optics holding a look of seriousness, "it's time to look into potential bondmates for you."

Thundercracker blinked again.

Thunderblaze made a small shrug, and bared his palms. "I'm sure we can find several appropriate candidates for your standing, and if you like any of them, you can extend a token of courtship."

Thundercracker bit back a grin. "Maybe I want to be courted," He took another sip from his cube.

"That can work too," His carrier nodded enthusiastically. "I'm sure we can find many suitors."

The Seeker laughed a little, the sound affectionate. 'Blaze has been nudging him about finding a mate ever since he'd flown with the Elite Seekers of Vos, but he's always brushed it aside, wanting to focus on his new post as Starscream's diplomatic advisor. However, things have been quiet, relations with Iacon smooth. Starscream didn't need a liaison when he was situated right inside the Autobot capital, attending the Science Academy, and Skyfire was more than capable of easing any tension that might've arose by the young prince's volatile temperaments.

In all, Thundercracker had a great job and plenty of time. Most Seekers his age already had a trine and a bondmate, but he had neither, not really. The trine link with Skywarp was still in establishment, and the distance between them and their trine leader wasn't helping matters. The teleporter himself hasn't been seen since his yielding to Starscream's wing-claim. He probably wasn't taking his loss very well, having wanted to be leader for his own trine.

He really should've known he couldn't win against Starscream, special ability or not. Thundercracker still wondered why he'd decided to take the challenge, since the prince was already leader to one-third of a trine.

"Do you have anyone in mind for me to meet?" The blue Seeker asked, deciding to humour his carrier. "I'm not averse to seeing who you've prepared for me."

"What makes you think I prepared?" 'Blaze leaned away a little, and took a small sniff. However, his left wing jerked, a clear sign that he was lying because he was slightly embarrassed.

Thundercracker lifted a brow-ridge, and stared.

His carrier stared back.

"…Ok, I have _one_ flier in mind."

"Of course you do." The Seeker grinned, and muffled his laughter with a big gulp of energon when his creator sent him a small glare.

"He's a surgeon at the General Med-Center," The Space Shuttle ignored his creation's quiet chuckles, and continued on, "He's very well sought after, one of the best in his field. Won many awards, and he just bought his own tower-top a few deca-cycles ago."

"Oh?" Thundercracker frowned a little. This wasn't what he was expecting.

"He's also from the same family unit as Pristinus, descendent of a sibling."

Ahh, now it made sense.

"Is he a Stealth Jet then?"

"Of course not. A Seeker."

Thundercracker wouldn't have minded either way, but he kept the thought to himself.

"I'd like to meet him." The Seeker smiled, "He sounds like a good match."

* * *

II

Thundercracker sat on the balcony of Star-Wing, the state-wide famous luxury cafe. In front of him was the view of the "Vosian Spark", the centermost district of the city with glittering towers that gave Vos its designation as the Jewel of Cybertron. On his left, a few flight-lanes away, was the Royal Tower, rising in spirals of wide windows. Its crystal embedded walls shimmered under the light of a close-by sun, sparkling, liquid colours morphing as the planet slowly travelled.

There was very little traffic here. Not many could afford to fly at this altitude, as dress-code was strictly enforced, since the area was so close to the Crown. Not that the Crown was actually here, but there was class to be upheld. Even the service-attendants bore gleaming paintjobs, not a single speckle of dust in sight.

Thundercracker had the entire balcony reserved for himself. He flipped through a novel-pad, the hologram flickering, and took sips of his medium-warmed energon. The delicate glass with the embellished stem shined as it caught the sun's radiance. It reflected beams of light that splashed in abundance over the smooth, polished plating of the Seeker, until his entire frame glowed.

Soft music played in the background as the lone flier waited for his company to arrive. A serf came and refilled his glass before it could reach halfway. Thundercracker shifted in his cushioned chair, and placed the novel-pad on the crystal table. He turned to admire the view, paying close attention to the sculptures in the garden three levels below.

A few quiet knocks, and the Seeker turned. By the arched doorway was another Seeker, stance poised and smile friendly. The newcomer had a pair of slender, pale wings, and optics that reminded Thundercracker of the sun whose brilliant rays were draping over the city. On top of the blue-tinted canopy was a small emblem, one that belonged to the General Med-Center of Vos.

"May I join you?" The voice travelled like a melody, light and sweet.

"Of course," Thundercracker deactivated his novel-pad, and stood as the other approached him. "Skylark, I presume?"

"Then you must be Thundercracker." Skylark's smile grew, and the Seeker bowed with a flick of his wings. "A pleasure." He said.

"Likewise." Thundercracker returned the gesture. "Did you just finish your shift?" He asked as they both took their seats, a glance at the emblem.

"Yes," Skylark wiggled a little on the cushion, "I almost got stopped by a guard because I had a scratch on my finger." The surgeon laughed. "_I_ didn't even know it was there, and I was hands deep in spark chambers all cycle!"

Thundercracker smiled, and looked down into his drink.

"I'm sorry, was that too graphic?" Skylark leaned forward a little, brow ridges dipped in apology. "Pri _did_ tell you that I'm a spark specialist, right?"

"Pri?" The blue Seeker tilted his helm in confusion.

"Oh, sorry, Pristinus," The surgeon rubbed the side of his faceplate, a little embarrassed, and sat back. "I couldn't pronounce his name when I was a sparkling, so I gave him a nickname. It stuck ever since."

"Oh," Thundercracker grinned. "You can call me TC if you'd like."

"I can't tell if you're being cute or insulting." Skylark sent him a look more amused than offended, and took a sip of his energon through smiling lips.

Thundercracker laughed.

It was a great start to a wonderful evening.

* * *

By the time Thundercracker returned to his tower, night-cycle had already begun. 'Blaze was already waiting in the landing-room, seated in a chair where he could easily keep an optic on the flight deck door. The Space Shuttle perked up as soon as his creation strode through the threshold. "How was he?" The creator asked, expression full of curiosity.

"Well, I don't _dis_like him." Thundercracker answered, walking up to his carrier. "Your taste seems to have improved." He teased, leaving a gentle brush against the Space Shuttle's wing as he walked past the older flier.

'Blaze huffed. "I've always had good taste. I got your sire, didn't I?"

Thundercracker smiled. "Yes," He answered as he went up the stairs, "Yes, you did."

For the rest of the evening, Thundercracker watched the central broadcast, and took a wash. Skylark sent him a thank-you message accompanied by a song they both liked, and the blue Seeker smiled, replying with a "thanks" of his own. The surgeon was very pleasant company. There was a chance that they were compatible enough to consider a bond. As the diplomat lay on his berth and pondered over the idea, he received a ping over his comm., and, to his surprise, a request over his trine link.

Skywarp hasn't contacted him at all since he'd popped off to Primus-knew where. Every cycle, he'd send a ping over their link to let the rest of his trine know that he was alive, and that was it. He's never wanted to talk before.

Thundercracker sat up, and answered the request in haste.

:_'Warp?_: He called out.

:_I saw you earlier_.: Came the greeting.

:_What?_: The blue Seeker frowned. :_Where?_:

:_On a balcony_.: Was the curt answer. :_Who was that with you?_:

:_Wha_—: Thundercracker shook his helm, brow-ridges furrowing. :_On a balcony? You mean Star-Wing?_:

:_How_ _the pit would I know? All I saw was you drinking with some ditzy lookin' Stealth._:

:_He's a Seeker_.: Thundercracker replied, tone a little snappish. Why was Skywarp being so spiteful? Of all the fliers the blue Seeker knew, the teleporter should be the last one to judge another by his frame type and class.

:_Really? Could'a fooled _me.: A snort. :_Ain't got any wing span_.:

Silence over comm.. Thundercracker took a deep cycle of air.

:…_Two decas, 'Warp. Two decas with no word, and this is all you have to say?_:

:_No_.: Skywarp paused. :_You never said who he was_.:

:_He's a-He's a friend_.: The blue Seeker pushed that aside. Why was it so important? :_Skywarp, you disappeared for two whole deca-cycles, and now you tell me you were _in_ Vos – in fact, _you saw me_ – and you never bothered to come say "hi"?_:

:_Couldn't. Too dirty._:

That was a slag reason, and they both knew it.

Thundercracker sighed.

:_You're Royal Wing-Left now. The guards can't kick you out anymore_.:

Silence. Then a mumble.

:_Didn't like how everyone was lookin' at me…_:

There was a pout in Skywarp's voice, and Thundercracker felt his frustration ease as his spark softened.

:_'Warp…_: The blue Seeker looked down at his hands, and bit his lip components. He let out an ex-vent, and crawled to the edge of his berth. :_You know what, why don't you come over? We can have a cube, you can recharge here, and next shift we'll go to the Royal Tower together, alright?_: A small smile, and a warm flutter of spark. :_Starscream's been insisting that we check up on our trine quarters. He wants to make sure the construction teams are doing a good job._:

:_Can't_.:

And the warmth was gone.

:_Why not?_:

:_Busy_.:

The line Thundercracker's lips had pressed into tightened.

:_Skywarp, are you dancing at that strip bar again?_:

:_None o' yer business_.:

:_None of my—For Primus's sakes, we're a trine now!_: The blue Seeker couldn't believe what he was hearing. :_We are the _Royal Trine_! You can't just_—:

:_Look, 'm _busy_, alright? Hafta go. Bye._:

And the line was cut, just like that.

Skywarp had hung up on him.

Thundercracker sat on the edge of his berth, lips pursed and optics an intense glow. His spark swirled inside his spark chamber. It felt sore, aching from being tossed aside as though he did not matter. With another sigh, he flopped backward, landing on the soft surface. He stared at the ceiling for a good few breems before finally hauling the rest of his frame onto the berth, and offlined optics after finding a comfortable position.

Recharge first.

Idiotic trine mates can be dealt with later.

* * *

III

Praxus, city of the Arts.

Located within its center was the Archive of Cybertron, mere streets from the infamous Helix Gardens, a large, glistening dome that house singing crystals and artworks by the most celebrated. Every vorn, hordes of mechs from all over the planet gathered here. The Assembly of the Arts was not an event anyone would want to miss, as being able to attend was the symbol of wealth, and being invited was a prestige every budding artist dreamt of every recharge.

Banners hung from every building, advertising exhibits and their showcased artist. An ocean of glittering paintjobs crowed the streets, which had been closed to alt-modes to allow visitors the freedom to travel at leisure. Cafes and restaurants opened every window to encourage better air flow, catering to their winged patrons. Music trickled through, mingling with the voices of tourists in a polyphony of merriment.

Thundercracker flew over the crowd, joined by his date, Skylark. Luckily, the alt-mode restriction did not include flight-capable flames, which meant they could reach their destination easily as long as there was a designated landing spot. No one wanted to get burnt by thrusters, so many galleries cleared up their rooftops just for the fliers. This actually helped ease traffic within the exhibition halls, not that the blue Seeker and his companion needed to worry about such things, being of the fewer who could afford to visit the larger of exhibits.

Throughout their several dates, the two had found that they both held a similar love for the widely acclaimed painter, Sunstreaker. They even had the same favourites, amongst which was the "Iaconian Prostitutes", a series of paintings that sparked quite the controversy when first put up in a rundown, gritty little place just outside Kaon center. One of the pieces in the series depicted a two wheeler tending to his patron that took a striking resemblance to Senator Decimus. This led to a lawsuit that lasted half a vorn before the artist finally made the public statement that the likeliness was merely a coincidence.

"What a heap of lies," Skylark had frowned, tapping against the glass of his chilled energon. "That entire case reeked of backdoor politics."

"But it did launch his career," Thundercracker had replied, "You can't buy that kind of publicity."

Not that Sunstreaker ever had a problem with getting his name on the prime-time broadcasts, not with his questionable lifestyle and numerous affairs with noble Towerlings.

That was where the two Seekers were currently headed toward: the début of the painter's new series of works. The reviews had been mixed, spanning the spectrum of "most inspirational since the Eisodos's 'Columns'" and "scrap no mech should have the misfortune of laying his optics on". This could only mean one thing: the exhibition was one that everyone should see.

With a smooth transformation, Thundercracker stepped onto the landing pad. Skylark followed suit soon after, and the two shared a smile before walking to the entrance. Their fingers brushed together, and the blue Seeker wondered whether he should extend an invitation to hold hands. The surgeon made the decision for him. The two stayed attached until they entered the gallery, digits intertwined without the enthusiasm of other couples.

The gesture was comfortable.

It was just comfortable.

The inside the exhibition hall had been dimmed to near darkness. The artworks were illuminated by a splash of light from above, one that faded before it could reach the bottom of the frames. The two Seekers were instructed to refrain from recalibrating their optic sensors, as the gradient of shadows was part o the work itself. A shifting web of sounds played inside the gallery, a single note from every corner of the rooms so that the harmonies changed as one walked through the exhibit.

Thundercracker stood in front of a large, wall-sized painting, arms loosely crossed over his canopy. His brow ridges furrowed slightly in concentration, and his lips mildly pursed as he studied the wash of colours, smooth strokes that bled from one pigment to another. There was brilliant yellow on the peripheral of the artwork, one that looked almost faded as the light focused on the center. The center looked moist, and the blue Seeker still hasn't figured out whether the paint was dry or not.

Skylark, having wandered off on his own for a little while, reappeared by his side. "How do you see this one?" He asked, helm tilting in the blue Seeker's direction.

"I'm not very sure," Thundercracker murmured, leaning forward to study the center. "I feel as though I have a firm enough grasp of everything else, but this one," He shifted on his thrusters, intakes a breath, "I honestly don't know what it is."

Skylark opened his lips to answer, but another voice spoke for him.

"Well, isn't it obvious?" A frame pushed between the two. "It's a valve."

Thundercracker jerked at the voice, helm snapping to the side. His optics widened, and he gaped, surprised and flustered by both the speaker and the answer.

"Skywarp?" He stared at the purple Seeker, who looked more well-kept than he's ever been.

Skywarp didn't meet his gaze, optics glued to the painting. "That's the panel," He waved at the yellow, "And those are the folds." He gestured at the center. "There's even a surface node, and see?" He pointed straight at the moist-looking part. "It's even lubricating."

"S-Skywarp!" Thundercracker felt his entire faceplate heat, wings snatching up with embarrassment. "Th—That's not—" He began, but Skylark spoke up instead.

"You know," The surgeon hummed, and put his face right in front of the moist part, "I think he's right."

"He _is_ right." A forth voice joined in on their discussion, followed by pedfalls. "It _is_ a valve." A mech emerged from the shadows, brilliant yellow almost piercing as it shimmered under the light. "My valve, actually." Sunstreaker, the artist, stood in front of the three, customary surly scowl on his handsome features.

Thundercracker couldn't formulate a single word, optics wide and round as he stared at the painter.

"Huh, so _this_ is what grounder valve looks like." Skywarp tapped a finger on his lips, expression thoughtful.

The scowl on the artist's lips grew. "This' what _mine_ looks like," He replied in a low snarl.

The purple Seeker shrugged, and sent the ground pounder a sideways glance. "Just never had one b'fore."

Thundercracker stiffened.

That was a lie, and Skywarp's wings didn't make a single twitch.

"…Bet'cha never had Seeker valve either," The teleporter continued to say, the glint in his optics suggestive and the curve of his lips a leer.

Sunstreaker's optics, cold flames that flickered, lit up for a split of a klik.

"What makes you think I'd _want_ one?" The grounder crossed his arms, but his stance shifted until the sleek lines of his frame caught all the light.

Skywarp gave him a once-over. "What makes ya think y' don't?" He turned, and grinned at the yellow-plated mech before sauntering closer, wings stretched out on full display. "Maybe I just wanna convince ya." The tips flicked, the gesture blatantly sexual, and Thundercracker couldn't stand it any longer.

"Skywarp!" With a firm hand around the teleporter's arm, the blue Seeker tugged him back. "Just what do you think you're doing?!" He whispered into the purple Seeker's audial, voice hushed and heated. "Stop this at once. This is unbecoming of you!" His optics flashed, blue striped wings hiking on his back. "Especially in front of Skylark. You're better than this!"

"Better than _what_?" Skywarp snarled, and yanked his arm out of his trine mate's grip. "How's who I frag any o' yer business?!"

"I am your _trine mate_!"

"Well I am _your_ trine mate, and _I_ certainly don't give _two slag_ about who you frag!" A swing of an arm, and the teleporter pointed straight at Skylark's faceplate. Vents spluttering, Thundercracker pulled that arm down, and hastily apologized to the startled surgeon.

"What is _wrong_ with you?!" He scolded the purple Seeker, energy field flaring in rising anger. Skywarp only glared back, lips pressed and jaw-joints tight.

Beside them, Skylark shifted on his thrusters, and dipped down his helm when mechs started to peer and murmur.

Sunstreaker looked back and forth between the two quarrelling trine mates, and let out a snort. "Comm. me." He said, a glance at the purple Seeker, before turning around and walking out of the light. Thundercracker vaguely felt an inquiring ping, and it didn't take any more than a big grin on Skywarp's faceplate for him to know that the teleporter had answered it.

"Stop that!" He hissed, grabbing down the purple arm that was waving after the yellow grounder. "We are in _Praxus_. Have some class!"

Skywarp instantly tensed. He took a slow, deep cycle of air, and his optics brightened to a piercing shine as he turned to face Thundercracker.

"Well I don't fraggin' _got_ any class," He gritted out, voice getting louder as he jerked his wrist out of the blue Seeker's fingers. "Maybe you shouldn't have considered a trine outta me in the first place if all you're gonna do is—"

"-Why—don't we move this elsewhere?" A tentative hand on each shoulder, Skylark made a smile that looked more like a grimace, and winced at the glare he received from the purple Seeker. "We're obviously not in the mood for paintings anymore, so why don't we all just-"

Before the surgeon even finished, Skywarp snatched each Seeker by a wing, and pulled them out of the art gallery. Thundercracker let out a yelp that never quite registered in his audials, the world around him blurring in colour before smacking him hard on the back of his wings. It took a long, disorientating moment for him to realize that it was, in fact, a table that had smacked into him. They'd warped right into a cafe, falling into tables and splashing energon everywhere while grounders leapt from their seats and cried out in alarm.

Thundercracker pushed himself off from the table, cheekplates flaming in shame as the mechs around them spluttered and pointed and talked. Glass shards fell to the floor, and sweetened energon trickled down the blue Seeker's thighs, leaving shimmering tracks in his polish. Skylark had already started apologizing, bowing and promising left and right to pay for the damage, as well as the shattered drinks. Skywarp stood right in the middle of the mess, arms crossed and a lazy, haughty smirk on his lip components.

Thundercracker pushed himself up, and felt the tips of his digits digging into his palms. He was trembling, embarrassment a writhing burn that stung the bottom edges of his optics with rising coolant. Without a single word, he clutched the purple Seeker by the hook of his arm, and dragged him out of the cafe. Upon the first quiet alleyway, he threw the teleporter in, and rounded on the still smirking flier with a fury that rarely erupted within his usually calm spark.

"What in the pits is the matter with you?!" He shouted, voice echoing between the walls of the buildings. "I was _humiliated_!" He shoved the teleporter, vents a stuttering roar as his wings quivered on his back. "It's been weeks, Primus-damned _weeks_ since the formation of our trine, and never _once_ have we even flown together!" His vision blurred. "Starscream's off in Iacon courting science and that-that Space Shuttle and _you_!" He pointed at Skywarp, digit right in the purple Seeker's faceplate. "I don' even _know_ what you're trying to do!"

The tail of his cry rang inside the alleyway, and suddenly, there was a pair of lips, hot and insistent and frantic, pressing against his. He pushed and fought, but hands clamped around his frame, fingers gripping the smooth derma of his plating and digging into the seams. The wall scorched his wings as the shivering appendages scraped against its surface. Thundercracker squeezed his optic shutters, and battled to speak, intakes hitching a huge gulp of air as a glossa invaded his mouth, the same moment a knee forced itself between his thighs.

With a muffled, strained shout, he struggled, and pushed the purple Seeker back, optics flashing online. A curse choked out of his vocalizer, and he hastily wiped the smear of oral lubricant on his mouth with the backs of his hands, limbs shaking with the swelling swirl of his spark. Coolant had spilled over his optics, streaks of glistening moisture running alongside curled back lips. Heat rolled off of his plating, and, for a long moment, he simply stood there, trembling with violence barely restrained.

"Wh—What is _wrong_ with you?!" He clenched his fists, and glared at the purple Seeker.

Skywarp glared back, and his engine growled low in his chassis.

"You—You disappear for _decas_. No word. No news. And when you finally discover some kind of misplaced social decency toward your _trine_, y-you—…you make fun of me!" The noble bit out another curse, and wiped at the mess on his faceplate. "You insult my potential mate, the only one who's shown more interest in me than you and Starscream _combined_. And then you show up out of nowhere, make a joke out of our trine, embarrass me, and ruin all my efforts at building, for once, a functional relationship in my utter _slaghole_ of relationships!" The diplomat yelled:

"_What is wrong with you_?!"

His vents roared. His joints tensed rigid. Thundercracker stared at the flier in front of him, optics wide and glowing so bright that its shine was visible even under the abundant light of day-cycle. Skywarp did not say a single word throughout the entire tirade, for once opting to listen. He watched the seething, blue Seeker, and gave his chin a terse jerk when Thundercracker finally seemed to have run out of things to scream.

"Ya still wanna talk?" The teleporter said, and Thundercracker saw red, a surge of rage so strong that his battle computer kicked in before he could even think of an override.

With a loud, furious cry, he grabbed onto the purple Seeker, and threw him back into the opposite wall. For a split klik, Skywarp actually looked alarmed. Then he laughed, and blocked the incoming punches with a combat style that was both messy and confusing to the military training dominant in Thundercracker's cortex. Thundercracker was one of the very few who'd taken close-quarter combat while in military service, more out of curiosity than necessity. When a _gutter-dweller_ of all fliers managed to fend him off while cackling like a maniac, a part of him, deep in the suppressed recesses of his spark, burst to the surface with a sheer need that flooded and overwhelmed what little control his logic circuits still had.

He kissed the laughing mouth, a bruising claim of the lips that surged sparks as metal clashed and squealed under the force of his shove forward. His engine cycled and roared, a deep rumbling that shook windows, ripping a moan from the Seeker writhing against him. Skywarp countered his desperate movements, yanking a wrist from his digits to pinch the bottom edge of a wing. The pain was like surge of fire, blistering his sensor nodes as it flew straight to his core, where a wet heat clenched and unfurled.

A gasp, and his optics flared online.

He was kissing Skywarp.

He was _kissing_.

_Skywarp_.

With a sharp yelp, he pushed away, scrambling and tripping on his thrusters. Horrified, he spluttered, hands clamping around his mouth and optics stretched wide. He stared at Skywarp, whose frame littered with little smudges of blue. The other's Seekers lips were parted, slightly swollen from the kiss they'd only kliks before shared.

"…O-Oh Primus…!" Thundercracker whispered, not daring to speak any louder. When the teleporter took a step forward, desire and intent clear in his glimmering optics, the diplomat cried out, peds shuffling against the ground as he pressed himself further against the wall, away from the purple Seeker. The noble hadn't intended to initiate an intimate contact, to reciprocate Skywarp's efforts. Such abandon, such loss of control, was…unbecoming of aristocracy, where graceful mannerisms and subtlety were celebrated.

Skywarp had frozen, one ped still extended in front of the other. His wing joints had stiffened, and the heated glaze behind his optics had cleared, slowing darkening in a chill. Slowly, his fingers curled, until his hands formed tight fists. With a bitten out snarl, he snapped around on his heels, and stormed toward the mouth of the alleyway.

"…Fraggin' tower-tops!" He tossed a piercing glare over his shoulder, and promptly transformed, blasting away into the sky.

Thundercracker watched him leave, wings vibrating against the wall. Helm lowering, he cupped his hands over his faceplate, and slid down into a crouch on the ground. He stayed curled up at the foot of the wall, hugging his knees. His duty of continuing his spark-line with a respectable bondmate hung heavy on his spark, a bitter tinge at the bottom of his fuel tank.

Skywarp…deserved better than a passing fancy. The purple Seeker was a teleporter, Wing-Left of the Royal Trine, but he had no notable background to speak of, no class to back up his suitability. Thundercracker was a private flier. He didn't want to become a topic to be discussed in hushed voices over glasses of refined energon, designation spoken by sweet, sharp glossas that had given his carrier-creator much grief over the vorns. He was not Starscream, who could do anything he damned well wanted. He was just another noble, a mech with enough wealth to buy a city on Cybertron yet not relief from the very life he lived.

With a sigh, he heaved his frame to stand. Skylark was still waiting, and it wouldn't do well for their courtship to have the surgeon deal with the mess Skywarp had left behind. Steps heavy, he walked out of the alleyway. He'd completely forgotten about the purple paint-marks on his plating, and flustered like a new spark at morning court when he'd finally realized.

Skylark only shook his helm with a smile. His optics kept glancing over the blue Seeker's shoulder while the diplomat fretted, at a musician who sent the Vosian medic quick little salutes over a glass of vintage highgrade only a wealthy flier could afford.

* * *

IV

Crown Prince Starscream of Vos was on the Iaconian Central Broadcast Channel's prime-time news. He wore a sneer Thundercracker knew only too well, and his red-striped wings twitched as he chewed out a gaping Senator with seeming jaw-joint malfunctions. This footage was cycles old, but ground-pounder media _adored_ the young monarch. This clip in particular had been played so many times that it's probably already been etched into the collective Cybertronian psyche.

Normally, this would spell disaster for Thundercracker. However, with Skyfire conveniently nearby, the only thing that the diplomatic advisor of Vos received was a short, scrawled report.

"_The Autobot's fault._" The glyphs said, "_It's ok now._"

That was it.

Thundercracker sighed, and turned off the broadcast before flopping down on his berth.

Starscream didn't even take the time to attach unflattering adjectives. The Autobot was just…the Autobot.

With another sigh, the blue Seeker turned, and grabbed the novel-pad on the berth-side table. For the rest of the morning, he stayed in, and read, taking a refuel in his room when it was time.

As he sipped on his cube and flipped through the novel-pad, his thoughts wandered. They gravitated toward Skywarp, as they always did whenever there wasn't sufficient distraction. The teleporter had completely severed all contact from Thundercracker, not even sending daily pings anymore. The only reassurance the blue Seeker had was the fact that Skywarp's comm. frequency was still available, though now, the line was little more than a black hole that gobbled up all attempts at connection.

So, as usual for the past two decas, Thundercracker sent out a ping. It seemed to echo down the line before it was received and eaten, leaving a chill of disappointment in the diplomat's spark. Alongside the chill was worry – worry for what was going to happen to his trine. All of its members were separated from each other, and Starscream didn't even seem to care, busy as he was with the Autobot Senate and term-end experiments and essays.

Thundercracker sighed for the third time in one morning, and was just about to toss aside the still sloshing cube when it came: a ping, lighting up an alert on his HUD. He froze, optics widening. For a split klik, he could've sworn his fuel pump skipped a beat as hope surged like a fountain from his spark chamber. Unfortunately, it was quickly snuffed out when he realized who the ping actually came from. It wasn't Skywarp, but Skylark, and the blue Seeker felt his wings droop a little, despite his churning guilt.

He did enjoy hearing from Skylark. He really did. It was just that, well…

Thundercracker shook his helm, and answered the ping, cycling air through his intakes.

Skylark was not Skywarp.

:_Hi._: He said, a small smile on his lips.

:_Hi._: Skylark replied.

Silence.

Thundercracker waited, but nothing seemed to be forthcoming, which was odd, as the surgeon was always eloquent and eager to talk.

Just as the blue Seeker was about to ask what was wrong, the other flier went on:

:_Uhh…How are you?_: The words felt clunky and awkward. :_I hope I haven't interrupted you at your post._:

Thundercracker frowned. They had long ago moved past formalities. :_No, not at all,_: He said, :_I decided to end my shift early. There wasn't much to do._: He paused. :_Is something the matter?_:

:_No, no, not at all._: The response came quickly, if not hurried. :_I just, well…I wondered if you'd like to meet. I, uhh…_: A beat of silence. :_I'm going on my mid-cycle break soon, and if you'd like, perhaps we can meet at the Med-Center café?_:

:_Med-Center café?_: Thundercracker didn't know there was one.

:_Affirmative._: Skylark answered. :_I'm afraid I don't have the time in between shifts to get ready for Star-Wing. I understand if you don't want to._:

:_Oh no, I—I want to._: Thundercracker hoped he hadn't given the wrong impression. :_When would you like to meet?_: He asked, hoping his enthusiasm would make up for the accidental offense, if there was any taken.

:_Would twenty breems be alright with you?_:

:_Of course._: The blue Seeker smiled. :_I'll see you soon, then._:

:_Affirmative. See you soon._: The line cut, leaving behind a droning buzz.

Thundercracker pursed his lips, and got up from his berth. Setting aside his cube, he took a brief wash, and brushed on a little polish. As he rubbed his plating in gentle strokes, he ran the conversation through his processors. He didn't know how to interpret the surgeon's change in attitude. It couldn't have been anything he did, could it? He hasn't even had the chance to _do_ anything yet.

Things have been good with Skylark. Things have been good since the beginning. They went on dates, shared cubes, and had light conversation interspersed with laughter. Nothing's changed, at least not as far as the diplomat knew. Neither of them offered to further the courtship, and the surgeon's busy schedule certainly didn't help.

With slight worry hovering around his spark, Thundercracker left his tower. A leap into jet-mode later, he rose to his reserved altitude, signature sonic-boom turning more than a few helms. He shot straight for the Med-Center, and did not slow down until his destination was well within his sight. Nosecone dipping in descent, he circled the district, and tried to see through the heavy traffic for an available flight-deck to land on.

The General Med-Center of Vos was located just outside the "Vosian Spark". It was a tower-top, which would have been impressive had it not been the top of a stout, wide structure that was more like an elongated dome than the preferred stream-line style of Vosian architecture. It was always busy, like a bustling hive. Its eighty-some flight-decks had constant traffic, even during late joors of night-cycle.

It was the only place in the entire city where the common civilian could pay for repairs from the best medics in their respective fields. Aristocrats received medical attention in their towers. The average citizen went to privately owned clinics unless there was a serious complication, one that was worth a blow in the credit-account at the Med-Center.

In other words, those who came here were in desperate need of help.

Thundercracker cruised around the traffic, and landed on the topmost flight-deck. It was a lot quieter, as only the well-off could afford a berth at this level. The nurse did not even bother to check if the blue Seeker was allowed to be here, simply giving him a slight nod and a polite smile. Thundercracker smiled back, and walked through the door, heading straight for the elevator.

Fliers hated elevators, even ones big enough to house a Shuttle in alt-mode. It was not the size, but the thought of being boxed in that bothered wings, despite the steady current generously circulated within the transport itself. Stairs were the novelty in Vos, and the Royal Tower boasted of stairwells Seekers could play tag in. However, the General Med-Center had no such luxury, opting for efficiency rather than aesthetics or comfort.

Thundercracker took a cycle of air, and stepped inside when the doors slid open. He glanced at the hologram display. It was a floor-plan, and the café was right below his level. Relieved that he would not have to wait long, he pressed the correct buttons. What he was _not_ ready for as the doors slid open a second time was the eruption of noise and hot air as frames blurred past each other, hurrying in and out an entire row of elevators spanning ten on either side of the blue Seeker.

For a long moment, Thundercracker only stood on his spot, shocked and a little wary. He did not venture out, not even when the hologram display let out several "ding"s alerting him of his arrival. It took the diplomat a couple of kliks to realize that this was a hall of sorts, where patients booked their appointments and travelled to their according waiting rooms. The sheer ruckus was…overwhelming. Left and right were fliers with pallid faceplates barely kept upright, and on the far corner, sitting on one of the very few seats, was a Fighter Jet rocking his bawling sparkling, looking completely lost as he peered helplessly at the crowd whizzing past him, not sparing him a single glance.

The café was on the other side of the hall, led to by a long corridor. Thundercracker had no idea how he was supposed to get there without taking flight, and even that was out of the question with pod drones flying from one chute to the next, carrying equipment and cubes of energon. Just as he was about to work up the resolve to battle to the other side, a voice called out from the horde, followed by an enthusiastic wave:

"Wing-Right Thundercracker?" A Striker Jet waded through the traffic, grin bright and optics friendly. He came closer, and made a curt bow as he stopped to stand before the diplomat, the hand not carrying a stack of data-pads rising to dab his canopy. A tag hung from his chassis, dangling and glinting as he moved. From its colours and sigil, the blue Seeker could tell he was a head nurse, probably in charge of a whole floor.

"Yes?" Thundercracker nodded back, a hand brushing against his own canopy.

"Surgeon Skylark instructed me to help you on your way. He's already at the café." The Striker explained, gesturing to the crowd. "Shall we?" The grin never lost a single degree in its perky tilt, and, with a small start, the blue Seeker realized that it was perhaps simply a necessity.

"Um, yes, please. Thank you." Thundercracker followed the head nurse's expert navigation through the ocean of frames. It wasn't until the Striker bowed and left that the aristocrat realized he'd never even gotten his name.

With a small frown, the blue Seeker turned away from the corridor, and looked into the café. It was quieter here, and the air was cool. Soft music trickled in the background, mingling with the sound of clinking glassware and chattering serfs. The customers themselves hardly talked. Most of them stared out the window. The few that didn't kept to their drinks, helms propped up by their hands.

Skylark was one of those staring out the window, hands cupped around a steaming glass of energon. Faceplate out of sight, it was hard to determine what expression he wore, though the sag in his wings was a bit worrying. Frown deepening, Thundercracker walked into the café, and thanked the serf that offered to take him to a vacant table. A Cargo with a fuel pump regulator looked up as he walked past. The Seeker did not return the gesture, not when doing so could be considered as being rude for a flier who was blind in one optic.

"Skylark?" Thundercracker called out as he arrived at the table, helm inclined forward. The surgeon actually jumped, wings twitching as he snapped in a turn, tag swinging on his chassis. He seemed to have to shake the startle off while Thundercracker pulled back a chair, drawing onto his faceplate a flimsy smile. The diplomat smiled back, but his frown never went away, a slight dip of his brows that made the medic glance away to the window.

For a long stretch of time, the only noise breaking the silence between them was the low murmur inside the café. A serf walked toward them with a menu-pad, but he stopped and turned his heels when he caught sight of Skylark's faceplate. The surgeon looked _exhausted_, leaning his cheek against his palm. He was slouching against the table, and his gaze was dim and dazed as he watched the scenery outside the window. His other hand was still around the glass of hot energon, the drink itself untouched. There were scuffmarks on his plating, shallow scratches and smears of another paintjob. Thundercracker's fingers clenched around each other on his lap, but he bit back the urge to ask. He was not sure if they were familiar enough, and he didn't want to overstep his boundary.

A long moment more. Skylark buckled under the tension. He let out a sigh, and rubbed his faceplate with his hands before grabbing the energon. Picking up his glass, he took a long drink. He held the energon in his mouth, and swallowed little by little as he avoided Thundercracker's searching gaze in favour of the view.

"…I lost a patient this morning." The surgeon broke the silence, voice thick and raw. "A youngling. Weak spark since creation."

A pause.

Skylark pressed his lips together, and bit his jaws.

"His creators spent every last credit they had to pay for the operation, but it was too late." His optics were glassy, a film of moisture that reflected the light from the window. "I knew it was too late," He said, "But I told them I could do it." A sharp intake, followed by a hissing sigh. "The sire threw me down. It took three nurses to restrain him."

The silence, when it returned, was even worse. Thundercracker looked down into his lap, at his fingers, and he didn't know what to say, didn't know how to help the other Seeker. The surgeon was a friend, a potential mate. However, as the air thinned between them, the diplomat realized that he had no idea how to be anything but comfortable, anything but light, cozy, and civil, with the medic.

Skylark sucked in a deep, loud vent-full of air, and gulped down his drink. The glass was almost slammed down, but the surgeon caught himself just before it hit the table, easing its descent with his fingers.

Thundercracker pretended to not notice. He tilted his helm, and kept his optics out the window.

"Don't you…have anything to say?" Skylark's voice was quiet and rough, yet it retained the melodious quality Thundercracker had grown used to.

Thundercracker turned away from the window, but meeting the other Seeker's optics was difficult, so he stared at the empty glass instead, and bit on his lips.

"…I'm sorry." He eventually managed, deep voice a soft murmur.

Skylark did not reply for a whole breem, hands tight around the empty glass.

He eventually pried them loose, and clutched them around each other.

"Thund—…TC." The introduction of the blue Seeker's nickname, the first time it's ever been uttered by the surgeon, surprised the diplomatic advisor. The blue Seeker's helm jerked up, and he stared at his company, red optics slightly widened.

"The truth is…" Skylark flopped against the backrest, and averted his gaze, "There's—…There's someone else." He grimaced, "There's someone else I'm seeing." He shifted in his chair, and took a breath. "You're wonderful, and you would've made a great mate for me and my family unit, but I just," Those yellow optics finally met Thundercracker's in a full gaze, "I can't see you as someone I can be intimate with. I hope you understand."

Oh, he did. If there was anything Thundercracker understood about their relationship, it was that all sentiments were purely platonic. Between polite conversation and graceful mannerisms, they knew close to nothing about each other, nothing that breached the surface. They shared a similar taste in the arts, and both enjoyed the quiet as opposed to the robust, but that was superficial information, what any flier could've found out through word-of mouth alone. There was no interaction on a baser level, no trade of secrets or emotion. None, and that clearly bothered Skylark, who was perhaps more of a romantic than Thundercracker was.

"Of course," Thundercracker nodded, and looked back at the pair of optics, which had shone so brilliantly the first time he'd seen them. Skylark was an attractive flier, and having his complete attention should've excited the blue Seeker, but it was just nice, nothing more. The diplomat didn't even feel offended or hurt by the rejection, merely acceptance. He'd still have Skylark's friendship, and that was alright, if not better, now that they no longer had to attempt a courting.

"May I ask what made you decide to tell me now, at such short notice?" Thundercracker tilted his helm, genuinely curious. He leaned forward, and placed his intertwined hands on the table. "I mean, you're the only spark specialist who frequents the General Med-Center. You must be busy. Couldn't this have waited until you are off-shift at least?"

For a while, Skylark only looked back. Then, as though tension was a cloak that could be shed, he sagged into the chair, a sigh calming the agitated perk of his wings. He actually smiled a little, and rubbed the back of his neck cables. When he spoke again, the words came a lot easier, no longer restrained by the need to please.

Thundercracker listened, nodding and adding input whenever appropriate. Losing patients was a cruel reality Skylark constantly struggled with, and it was even harder when those lost were young sparks. The surgeon's mid-cycle break was too brief, so the two made evening plans, which eventually developed into a night-long talk over a cube of highgrade. When Thundercracker rose out of recharge the next morning, sprawled on the floor of an unfamiliar suite, he took a moment just to study the frame lying next to his. They were close, energy fields mingling, yet nothing happened, just as it shouldn't.

With a small smile, the blue Seeker lay back down, and rested his helm on his arms. Skylark had no shift this cycle, and Vos could function without its Royal Diplomatic Advisor's constant diligence at paper work. Thundercracker missed morning court, but he only received an automatic message asking for his whereabouts. Without Starscream, morning court wasn't even necessary. A mere ritual for the sake of formalities than anything useful for those involved.

By the time Thundercracker returned to his tower, it was already after dark. Blaze made a few inquiries, but a good carrier always knew when and when not to pry. The blue Seeker climbed up the stairs, and spent a good, long joor in the wash. He was more than ready for a nice, lengthy recharge in the comfort of his own berth when he walked out of his wash chamber, and froze mid-step past the threshold into his room.

There he was, the only flier on Cybertron who could go anywhere he wished completely unannounced.

Skywarp.

* * *

V

Thundercracker lingered in the doorway. He didn't know how to react. For a moment, he simply stared at the purple Seeker, lips slightly parted and optics widened. Then he glanced away, hands rising to clasp around elbows as he wrapped his arms over his canopy.

He shifted on his thrusters, a shoulder pointing toward the other flier.

He didn't knowing what to say.

Skywarp remained silent as well, not moving a single step. From his peripheral, Thundercracker could see him, shoulders squared and hands in loose fists, dangling by his sides. The teleporter faced him, back straight and peds parted. He wore no smile, optics illuminating the firm set of his lips in the dimmed chamber.

Thundercracker swallowed. His jaws tensed. His fingers clutched around his arms, and he took in a sharp breath, vents an audible whirr as he opened his mouth, an inquiry ready to burst from his vocalizer. However, all he'd let out was a blurt of a consonant. Skywarp crossed the room in three strides. A flicker of red light. A fleeting shadow. A pair of lips muffled the blue Seeker's words, and suddenly, there was pressure against Thundercracker's canopy, the brittle clink of cockpit glass.

Skywarp was warm, vents huffing hot air. His energy field buzzed, and his hands were firm as they grasped around the diplomat's shoulders. Thundercracker froze, frame stiffening. His arms unraveled, wings twitching as surprise swept over his spark, fingers clenching around air.

He didn't know whether to reciprocate, or push the purple Seeker away.

Skywarp tilted his helm, and parted his lips. His engine purred, and one of his arms slithered around Thundercracker's waist, fingers digging into side plating. His glossa slid in easily, as the diplomat had yet closed his mouth from the unspoken question. There was a soft moan, and the blue Seeker gasped, a startle jolting his frame as his processors finally caught up with what was going on.

With a yelp, he shoved the teleporter away. Skywarp skidded a few steps back, but he was not deterred, lunging forward as soon as he's regained footing, arms once again wrapping around the noble's body. Thundercracker tried to turn, tried to back away. The purple Seeker followed, insistent even as the diplomat folded his forearms and pushed at the offending frame in the chassis.

"S—Skywarp—!" He bit out, "What are you—" His ped slipped as they stumbled into the shower chamber, "-What are you doing?!"

Skywarp did not say a single word. His only response was a tug at Thundercracker's hips, a black thigh jostling between the blue Seeker's. The floor was still moist. Thundercracker struggled to stay upright. His effort was futile, especially when balance was precarious and the teleporter was strong.

They toppled, falling into the large stall. Sensing occupants, the shower heads activated, sprays of steaming water beating down on wide black wings striped with purple and white. Thundercracker strained his neck-cables as he fought to turn away, and let out a strangled cry, the sound bouncing between the walls, over the noise of cascading streams. He tried to sit up, to overturn their position, but he had landed in disadvantage. Skywarp's weight bore down on him, keeping him pinned under the teleporter.

"—Say you don't want me!"

A shout.

Thundercracker stilled.

"Say you don't want me at all, that you don't want this, and I'll stop. I swear to the pits and back that I'll stop!"

A hitch of intakes – Thundercracker didn't know from whom. He continued to stare at the wall, rippling with flowing water, and kept frozen, optics widened and bright.

There was a growl, and the fingers around the blue Seeker's shoulders tightened. It hurt. The diplomat winced, snapping his helm around to protest. His lips parted, but they only ended hanging open. Thundercracker looked up, and anything he might've wanted to say was swiped clean from his vocalizer.

Water continued to run.

It washed down the frame propped up above his.

Skywarp arched over him, faceplate shadowed, dentae gritted. Clear, scented water flowed over the edges of his wings. It gathered on his cheekplates, and fell, like glistening crystals, splattering onto the noble's face.

"…I'll stop…" The teleporter's chassis heaved, "…if you…" His brow ridges knitted, "…would just tell me what the frag you _want_ with me."

Steam rose. Water swirled into the drain.

Thundercracker stared up at Wing-Left of Vos, and felt the corners of his lips beginning to quiver.

"…It makes no sense." Skywarp continued to speak, optics a piercing glow. "Trine mates frag around all the time." His vents labored. "You clearly have a thing for me. I _know_ you do. So _why_?" The teleporter grimaced. "_Why_ do you keep _refusing_ me?!"

His shout echoed.

"Is it 'cause I'm from the gutters? Is it 'cause I sell my port for a living?"

Thundercracker flinched.

"Any of that would'a made perfect sense, but you _like_ me, TC. _You like me_! So why can't you just—…Why can't you just do what you want, huh?!"

Thundercracker bit his lips, and offlined his optics. He turned his faceplate away, and held his intakes as he trembled below the purple Seeker.

Steam gathered, and began to cloud, rising to the ceiling of the room.

Skywarp cycled air through his systems. His cooling fans whirred, audible even over the beating water.

"…Do you…like me, TC…?" The question was a whisper, a wavering whisper much unlike the careless, mirthful lilt the blue Seeker had grown used to.

Thundercracker clenched his jaws.

"…Look at me in the optics." A purple hand lifted from a blue shoulder, and wrapped around the noble's faceplate, "…Look at me, and tell me you don't like me, TC."

Thundercracker onlined his optics, but he kept them averted, staring at the far wall.

Silence filled with noise.

The water usually calmed, but they flowed down the teleporter's cheeks like tears, tears that burned as they plummeted onto the diplomat's plating.

"…Trine mates frag around all the time. It doesn't even have to mean anything." Skywarp said, voice lowering. "I wouldn't even mind if it means nothing, y'know. I told'ya since the beginning that I wouldn't mind if it were you."

That stung, more than it should have.

"…That's—…That's not right." Thundercracker shook his helm, voice croaked. "I can't do that, even if I didn't like you."

Skywarp froze. The blue Seeker could feel the tension in the fingers curled around the side of his face.

"I can't simply indulge," Thundercracker continued, each syllable a struggle, "and expect you to understand when I discard you." He swallowed. "My desire…isn't above your value as a person, 'Warp," He said, slowly turning to look at the beautiful, battered Seeker arched above him, "I won't use you, regardless of how much I—…how much I may have—…wanted, to give in." A shuddering intake. "I'm sorry for what I did in Praxus, in that alley. I shouldn't have—…done any of what I did."

Skywarp kept silent, vents held and lips pursed. He watched the diplomat, expression withdrawn, and his optics were glazed, guarded by a pane of glass. For a long moment, he remained as he was, quiet, and pensive. Then, with a snort of a laugh, he smiled, one tilt higher than the other.

"Well, _damn_," His brow ridges dipped, and a film of liquid misted the red of his optics. "…You really like me, don't you."

Thundercracker couldn't quite return the smile.

"…A little bit." He whispered, and cupped a hand around the one held against his faceplate.

When the water once again fell from the purple Seeker's cheeks, they were cooler.

They stung, for the weight they carried had not been shed for far too long.

* * *

Skywarp stayed the night, but by morning, he was gone. Thundercracker climbed out of berth, and took a brief wash before flying out for court. He was a little late, but only Bladeflight sent him a chiding glance. After a trade of reports, the advisors and generals parted, embarking on yet another shift of mundane tasks.

Thundercracker was sure he caught the tail-end of Stormstrike asking Bladeflight if he wanted to go for a drink after shift. What the Fighter Jet general said in response, however, was lost as the blue Seeker took off, words buried under the roar of his thrusters.

Thundercracker had an office in the Royal Tower, which was where he usually worked. There was no need for him to stay there, but Starscream liked his advisors situated at one place while on shift. Without the monarch here, the diplomat took the work with him. The observatory was where he preferred the most, the quiet of the slowly revolving tower-top calming to his spark.

Situated above the Central Archive of Vos, the observatory was a crystal dome that glowed under the sun. It had the perfect view of the city, at least as perfect as it was accessible to those privileged or wealthy. The lavish suite at the tip of the Royal Tower, where Starscream would one cycle reside with Skyfire, naturally had the best. However, only a selected few would have the luxury of setting ped into it.

Thundercracker sat at his usual table, data pads laid out in front of him as he sipped on a cup of warm energon. He read over reports, contacted necessary officers, and spent a joor bantering with Skywake about the Autobot Senate's proposal to reestablish trade. After compiling what he thought was a convincing argument, he sent the file to Starscream's message center. The monarch would never agree to it, but the process needed to be completed regardless.

The blue Seeker took a stretch, and cycled a deep breath of air through his vents. Leaning forward, he propped up his elbows on the table, a palm against a cheek, and looked out the wall of glass. Concentrating was difficult. All he wanted to do was comm. Skywarp and see what the teleporter was doing. It would be best to not contact the purple Seeker, however. Despite popular belief, Skywarp did need time to think, and such time was best spent in solitude, without disturbance.

For the rest of his shift, Thundercracker idled. As the last few breems clicked down, he packed up, and left the observatory, taking a longer route home just to stretch his wings. It would've been better if he had a trine to fly with, but he'd already decided to stop complaining about that. There was no point, not when Starscream wasn't in the least keen about coming back to Vos just for a trine mate.

The blue Seeker arrived back at his tower just in time for evening refuel. He grabbed a cube, and took sips while watching a popular drama with his carrier. A purely indulgent wash-cycle later, he snuggled into berth, and offlined his optics, anticipating a long, good night of recharge.

_Pop_.

A frame appeared out of nowhere and fell right on top of the diplomat, followed by an announcing cry that Thundercracker would recognize anywhere:

"TC—!"

The reclining Seeker jumped, and let out a yelp. Optics flashing online, he gaped up at the wide grin taking his entire field of vision, and tried to form a coherent inquiry:

"Wh-What—Skywarp—…you…What?"

Skywarp laughed, and settled comfortably on top of the noble. He wiggled, and ended up straddling the blue Seeker's hips, hands propping up on his own as he beamed down at the diplomat.

"Good. You're awake. 'Cause I _have_ somethin' for ya!"

Thundercracker shuttered his optics in quick succession as he tried to get up onto his elbows. "What are you—…Skywarp, do you know what time it is? I have work next cycle, and I have to wake up early for morning c—"

Skywarp shoved him back down, grin never lessening in its stretch. "I'll have you know, perky wings, that this is a really big deal, 'cause I'm poor, so I don't get stuff just for anyone." Completely ignoring the blue Seeker's spluttering protests, the teleporter reached into subspace, and pulled out a—

Thundercracker squinted.

…a—…

…uh…

_Something_.

"Tada!" The purple Seeker presented the _something_ like a trophy, optics glimmering in the darkened room. "So? What d'ya think?"

Thundercracker stared.

He gave his helm a slow shake.

"It's…uhh…It's…very nice, 'Warp. Very nice." He mumbled, and tilted his helm, wondering if the new angle would help him discern what that _something_ was.

Nope. Didn't help.

"Good!" Skywarp chirped, "You'd better find it nice, 'cause it's a sculpture, of my valve."

Thundercracker froze.

His optics grew round.

Oblivious, Skywarp prattled on: "I gave Sunstreaker such a good time that he sent me off to one of his buddies, who's a sculptor. He wanted to make only one, but I asked him to make two, juuust so I can give you one. See? Ain't I nice?"

Words? What were words?

Thundercracker was speechless, lips hanging open as he stared at the—…the…valve.

"I dunno what he wants to do with the other one, though." The teleporter frowned a little as he wondered. Then he shrugged. "But you like this kinda thing, right? Since you liked that painting?"

"…Um…" Thundercracker shuttered his optics once.

As usual, Skywarp ran off with his own interpretation of what "um" meant.

"Yeah, I know it looks kinda weird," He made a face, and poked at the sculpture. "Can't help it, though. The bot's a…what was it…sur—surr-real—…some guy that makes weird slag. But y'know, it's still kinda nice. You can use it as a data-pad stand."

Thundercracker kept staring.

His lips twitched.

Before he could even figure out why, he burst into laughter, clutching his stomach plating as he tried to curl to the side, motor cables pinching while his intakes wheezed for breath. He wanted to stop, feeling sheepish and embarrassed when Skywarp simply sat there and watched, but he couldn't do it, not when every glance at the teleporter set him off into another round of hiccupping giggles. For a long moment, Skywarp simply looked at him. Then he started to laugh too, rubbing the back of his helm with his vacant hand not holding the surrealistic valve sculpture.

"_What_?" The purple Seeker huffed, and nudged the chortling diplomat on the shoulder, "What's so funny?"

"No, no, it's—" Thundercracker rubbed his optics, "It's wonderful, really. A very thoughtful gift. I have no idea why I'm—"

A kiss, and a playful flick of a glossa against his lips.

Skywarp leaned back. His grin glowed like a beacon as his optics shimmered.

"I have another surprise for you, actually." He winked, and grabbed onto Thundercracker's hands before the diplomat could ask.

The next thing the blue Seeker knew, he was falling wings first into another berth, peds making a loud "clang" as it bounced off of warm, live metal.

A screech, high and ringing above Skywarp's guffaw.

Thundercracker smiled.

His trine was closer to each other than he'd initially thought.

* * *

**Notes:** I…had a few things I'd wanted to say, but I just saw a beautiful picture a lovely, talented artist (_lesnee_ on tumblr) has drawn for "Insatiable", and I have been effectively rendered overwhelmed and without any structured form of thought, so…Thank you _grandmabatman_ for the prompt, thank you _Skylark Starflower_ for letting me use your name for an OC, and thank you, _Koluno1986, Random523, eadspud, heretherebemonsters, GemDragon22, Skylark Starflower, Khysani Myrical, _and_ riah riddle_, for reading and reviewing!

Big thanks to _lesnee_ as well for the wonderful present!

Oh, and here, a bonus scene:

* * *

**Bonus Scene:**

"Oh dear." A quiet exclamation came from the doorway, where a white Space Shuttle stood, a data-pad in hand.

"_Do_ something!" Starscream let out a whiny cry, struggling and failing to push off a certain grinning teleporter.

"Well…" The Space Shuttle quirked his helm as he examined the scene, "there is much one can do with a berth full of attractive Seekers, your Highness." His blue optics twinkled. "Which one would you prefer?"

Starscream's optics grew wide. "Skyfire!" He cried out, too shocked to keep his efforts at dislodging Skywarp.

Skyfire laughed. "Alright, I'm sorry." He dipped his chin in a tiny bow, though the twinkle remained.

"Why're ya sorry?" Skywarp wiggled just to rub his aft all over his trine leader's canopy. His grin turned lecherous. "_I_ wouldn't mind havin' a piece of that _fine_ Space Shuttle—"

"-I am _not_ sharing!" A loud slap on the aforementioned aft. "Especially not with _you_!" Starscream shouted, optics blazing fire-pits as he finally yanked himself out of the pile.

"Aww but Screameeerrr—!" Skywarp whined, but only received a knock upside the helm.

"Don't call me that!" The trine leader snapped, wings hiked up for a fearsome effect. Thundercracker thought he looked more flustered than fearsome, though that might be due to his angle.

Skyfire smiled in that serene, wise way only he could pull off, and inclined his helm to the side. "Please don't be discouraged, Wing-Left Skywarp." He soothed the teleporter, and swung small fist-pump in the air. "I will double my efforts at convincing His Majesty of your offer."

Starscrean froze. He bristled in horror, wings smacking Thundercracker in the faceplate as it shot up perpendicular to his back. "_Skyfire_!" His voice gained three octaves, and his optics were round as Cybertron. "How could you even _joke_ about that?!"

Skyfire laughed again, and turned away to muffle his vocalizer when the young Prince started to kick his thrusters in frustration. "Okay, okay, I'll stop now." The Space Shuttle held up his hands in surrender. "Promise," He added when the monarch continued to glare at him with a petulant pout, and the twinkle eased to a warm glow.

"Normally, I'd refrain from such conversation," Thundercracker shuffled on top of his elbows, and gave the room a smile, "but to be honest, I wouldn't mind sharing my trine with the future Royal Consort at all." Feeling especially bold, he gave his left optic a wink, and watched as Starscream's lips gaped open.

"That's the spirit, TC!" Skywarp called out, just as the monarch shook his helm. "…The whole world has gone mad." He said, optics widened and staring forward.

That night cycle, Vos saw the return of its Royal Trine. The Central Broadcast Channel did a special on the spectacle, though no one knew why Crown Prince Starscream kept reverting back to base-mode to wave his arms and peds in the air while his trine mates laughed, flying away when the trine leader shrieked and chased after them, still in bipedal form.

It must have been affection, the anchors decided. After all, the prince would have no trouble gaining the upper-hand if he really tried.

* * *

A review would be lovely. :' )


	3. Blitzwing: I-IV

Disclaimer: I only own this AU and OCs, unfortunately.

* * *

Blitzwing

(And the many ways a sparkling can be of use to a Decepticon)

* * *

_Timeframe: Before and during "Insatiable" part XXII, but prior to part XXIII (Both parts seen in chapter 22)_

* * *

I

Blitzwing was a mech well-versed in riding the curve-balls of life. It kinda came with the territory of being sparked as a triple-changer. There wasn't much that made him uncomfortable. Becoming a Decepticon was probably one of the most reliable things he's ever done. Theft, extortion, arson, murder, he'd even once had his own whorehouse, running a branch under a notorious trafficker of Kaon Underground. But this?

The tank-former grimaced, and cursed the sky.

He'd rather scrub the sub-level washracks for an entire deca-cycle.

"No, you don't understand," He'd practically _begged_ the pretty Space Shuttle. "I, kill, things. Mechs. Living. Warm." He'd even clenched his fingers, hoping to deter the scientist with gruesome gesturing. "I yank fuel lines outta bots and shove 'em down their throats." Did Nightfire not see that? "It ain't a good idea to put me with a bunch of little chirps."

"Oh don't be shy, Blitzwing." Nightfire smiled over his shoulder, and waved dismissively. "The little chirps will _love_ you."

Blitzwing stared. "…That's not the pro—"

The scientist let out a sigh, and turned around to face the triple-changer, crossing his arms. "Do you _enjoy_ holding onto me?" He asked, brow ridges slightly knitted.

Uhh… "You want an honest answer?"

The scientist sighed again, and leaned against his desk. "Won't you at least give it a try?" He tilted his helm. "I'm under a lot of pressure to help you succeed, but I'm…I'm out of my element." He shrugged a shoulder. "I don't know what it's like to be afraid to fly, but these instructors do. They've been _trained_ to work through whatever obstacles young fliers may face." The Space Shuttle nibbled his lips, and sent him a small smile, chin dipped. "Please?" He prompted, optics round and shimmering like gemstones under the rim of his helm.

Aw frag-it.

Who knew he had a thing for pretty Shuttles?

Hence why he was _here_, standing on a flight deck, waving after the Science Advisor of Vos while fliers of all frame-types dropped off their little ones for their very first flight lesson.

There was a lot of screaming and crying. Little chirps didn't like being separated from their creators. Unfortunately for Blitzwing, sparklings had a tendency to cling onto whichever adult frame was closest after their parental-units departed. Slag it all to the pits. It was like he could bud flier sparklets. They'd all flung themselves onto him like magnets, and made tiny, pitiful whimpers when he tried to pry them off.

Aaargh—

His street cred!

Primus in a smelter and Unicron's cogs if they weren't so slaggin' adorable and helpless he would've—

"Ahh, you must be Blitzwing." A flier, looked like a jet, waltzed out of the tower holding a datapad.

Blitzwing leveled him with a stare.

Oh no. How could he have guessed.

"Warming up to your friends, I see." The jet-looking-flier had the nerve-circuits to smile. "How sweet of you to take care of them with their creators gone."

Yeah, keep smilin'. Come a little closer and we'll see what happens to that smile.

"Why don't you come in? No need to be shy."

Why did every flier think he was shy?

"Oh, you can just leave the sparklings as they are. They can hold on real tight once they get their little arms around you."

Wow, he had no idea. Not like he's already tried to yank 'em off or anything.

Blitzwing stumped into the tower, lips curled and visor in a glower in case any of the prissy, polished pair of wings that worked here decided that laughing at a triple-changer was A-fraggin'-okay.

No one laughed. Most didn't even give him a second glance.

"Usually it's us that get clung onto." The jet-looker explained as though he could read the Decepticon's mind. "They must really like you. Probably because they feel safe around you."

If the tank-former had any sense of humour left, he would've laughed at the irony of that statement.

"Please, this way." The jet-looker led them down a corridor. "We won't be outside for the first few lessons. It's better to familiarize the sparklings with different levels of current before letting them roam free in the flight ranges." The flier's thrusters clicked against the floor as he looked over his shoulder at the triple-changer. "I'm Microburst, by the way. Striker Jet." The mech smiled. "I'm honoured to be entrusted with the task of helping you fly, Blitzwing."

Blitzwing tossed him a glance, and let out a grunt. There was a little chirp nestled right around his tank barrel. It was very uncomfortable.

Before long, they arrived at a pair of massive gates. Microburst gave the keypad a gentle tap, and the gates parted, sliding easily on their tracks. The Decepticon took one step forward, and jumped back three. What the frag? The floor—…was glass!

In fact, everything was glass, the ceiling, the walls. The room was oval, large enough to be a gladiator rink. The Striker Jet strode in, pausing to turn and give the triple-changer an expectant look. Blitzwing grimaced, and muttered under his breath, peds scraping against the floor as he eased past the gates and kept his visor stubbornly pointed forward.

Don't look down don't look down don't look down…

The little chirps hanging onto him started to, well, chirp. They craned their neck cables as they took in their new surroundings, and, one by one, unraveled their arms and floated away. Most of them only managed to stay airborne for a few kliks before dropping to the floor. Blitzwing jolted as he tried to catch them, but the sparklings didn't seem to mind their fall at all, climbing onto their tiny thrusters and running around.

Aw scrap. Blitzwing winced. He looked down.

Below them was an abyss that hid the roots of the towers. His peds knew there was something solid beneath them, yet his spark continued to clench inside its chamber, weakening the joints of his knees.

"Blitzwing?" The Striker's voice startled the triple-changer, but the larger mech quickly shook it off. "Come," The flight instructor waved him forward. "Can you feel anything in the air?"

"Uhh…" Blitzwing tried to shrug, but it came out more like a shudder as he eased himself across the glass floor. "No…?" He gave the jet a sideways glance. "Why?"

Microburst hummed and nodded. "Just wondering about your wing sensitivity," He replied. "As you can tell, the sparklings are less nervous now. Having a light, regular gust of current calms them." He laughed when one of them bumped into his leg mid-float. "But it must be too gentle for you to feel, and that's alright, because most of these sparklings are Seekers."

Seekers. Blitzwing knew a Seeker, who was a glitch-ridden scrapheap of an aft. That didn't mean much here, though, so the triple-changer simply grunted again, and looked up instead of down.

"Feel free to take a walk and explore the place," Microburst smiled.

Blitzwing cast him a look. What was there to explore? It was a big glass room.

"I'm fine standin' right here."

The Striker let out a chuckle. "Blitzwing," He quirked his helm, gaze polite but gaining an edge of determination. "_Please_ take a walk and explore the place."

Oh.

That was what he meant.

Well if he'd just _said_ somethin'—

Blitzwing ran a deep cycle of air, startling more than a handful of little chirps with the sudden stream of current, and nodded, lips curled. "Yeah, yeah, I get it." He scooted to the side, inching toward the closest wall.

"Thank you!" Microburst flicked his wings. "Oh, and please take care of Astro while you explore. He seems to have taken quite a liking to you."

Astro? What the slag was the jet—

"-Aaagh!" Blitzwing looked down, and jumped when all he saw was two humongous optics staring at him. How in the pits did he miss a little chirp plastered against his chassis? The sparkling wasn't put off by the loud burst of a cry, gaze wide and bright as he peered intently at the triple-changer's faceplate.

Ugh. _Creepy_.

"Do I have t—" The Decepticon lifted his helm, lips parted. He got a view of the Striker's back instead. The little glitch of a jet just turned around and left! Wasn't he supposed to, oh who knows, act like an instructor and _instruct_?

Oh well. Blitzwing turned to the wall. He ain't payin' the mech. As far as he was concerned, either Lord Megatron had deemed him a scientific experiment worthy of investment, or screechy little red aft was doing this as a favour. With a deep, guttural sigh, the triple-changer made a face, and began to slowly slide across the floor. The damned chirp was still staring at him. What the frag was his problem?!

"…Scaredy." The chirp, catching his visor, blurted out.

Blitzwing froze.

Whoa.

Whoaaaa hold on a klik ya little twerp.

"What," the tank-former sneered, "did you just say?"

"Scaredy." The sparkling echoed, voice muffled against the Decepticon's chassis.

Blitzwing felt his fingers curl into his palms, the scowl on his lips peeling back to expose his gritted dentae. The little bitlet of a glitch had the audacity to latch onto him like a parasite and call _him_ a coward?! The tank-former felt his optics narrow. Yeah. Have fun latchin' onta _this_.

With a huge heave of his chassis, the triple-changer stomped across the floor, throwing his arms in wide swings. The little chirp yelped in alarm, and clambered when he almost fell, tiny digits digging into the Decepticon's seams. Yeah. That's right. Ya don't call a 'Con "scardy" and get a smooth ride. Blitzwing smirked, and flung his upper torso around, tossing the sparkling's legs in the air.

A thin, high-pitched wail, and the large mech jolted, looking down at the sparklet. The little one was curled against his plating, wing-nubs trembling and flat on his back. He whimpered, field an erratic buzz against the triple-changer's. His optics were wide, and there was coolant dangling from them, fat droplets waiting to spill.

"—Just what on Cybertron were you thinking?!" Microburst rushed to his side, and plucked the sparkling from his chassis. The little chirp instantly sputtered into tears, and let out the most shivery little trill the Decepticon has ever heard. The flight instructor held the sparklet close against his canopy, and rubbed circles at his wing joints, voice in soft coos.

"…Scaredy…" The sparkling let out a wavering mew, and—

…Oh.

Well, slag.

Blitzwing winced.

He hadn't felt this bad since he'd clubbed a blind and mute whore in the face.

* * *

"So!" A slap on his wings. "Heard you're takin' flight classes."

Blitzwing bit back a flinch at the slap, and sent his unwanted company a glare. "Frag off, Skywarp."

"Only if ya frag off _with_ me, my mech!" The Seeker flopped down beside him, grin wide enough to eat the triple-changer's ped. "Don't you wanna talk about it? I'm an expert at this, y'know."

The larger mech grumbled, and took a swig from his cube. "You're an expert at suckin' spike." He glanced around the mess hall, wondering if there was anyone he could pitch the resident annoyance after.

"I'm good at suckin' many things." The teleporter propped an elbow onto a broad shoulder, and gave his brow ridges a wiggle, to which the bigger Decepticon curled his lips before blowing out a huff through his vents.

He should've known it'd take far more than prickly attitude to get rid of the persistent prankster.

"Don't wanna talk about it." The triple-changer grunted, shrugging the elbow off.

"Aww, did the sparklings pick on you?" Skywarp leaned forward, canopy clinking against the tank-former's arm.

Blitzwing threw him a glare before he gulped down his ration. "You never gave a slag about me b'fore." He slammed the cube down. "Why now?" He turned his helm, fingers tight around the glass container.

The Seeker gave his hand a look. "Dunno." His wings flicked. "Thought ya might want a friend."

The triple-changer sighed, lips pressed together. "I ain't a _flier_." He spat out the word, and got up from the bench.

"Well y'ain't a grounder either." Skywarp called out while the taller Decepticon tossed his cube into a disposal bin. "So what are ya?"

Blitzwing felt his wing joints tense, and cursed under his breath. "I ain't your business. That's what." He snarled, not even sparing a glance at the teleporter as he turned around, and strode toward the exit.

Surprisingly, Skywarp didn't follow him to hover like the nuisance that he was.

Left to his own devices, the triple-changer wandered the halls. He didn't like staying in his room anymore, not since growing a pair of wings. The ceiling was too low. The lack of ventilation made his sensors itch. He couldn't even go for a spar at the pit. No one wanted to damage the science experiment.

Grumbling about stupid, extraneous limbs, Blitzwing turned the corner, and bumped straight into a chassis. With a blast of air and a shove, he waded through the group, visor kept ahead instead of acknowledging the faceplates he walked past. He was five paces from the next corner when a hand grabbed his shoulder. Annoyed, he shook it off, only to have his other shoulder seized and yanked around.

He stumbled in a turn, and made a tight-lipped sigh as he scanned the group of mechs. The one who'd grabbed him was the chassis he'd bumped into, a large bot with the ugliest mauve paintjob he's ever seen. "Don't'cha got somethin' to say?" The big guy bared his dentae, and the covers on his vents flared, a wave of hot air beating against the tank-former's flight sensors.

Blitzwing gave the mech a look. Who the frag has covers on their vents? He scoffed, and turned around, only to have his shoulders clutched and frame thrown against the wall.

Ouch.

His wings took most of the impact.

The triple-changer's visor flashed, and he pushed from the wall, energy field bristling to collide against the big ugly mauve's. He stared the mech down, despite being a helm shorter. His digits dug into his palms, and his jaws clenched, lips pulled into a downward line. Big ugly mauve did not back down, not when he had his sneering friends flanking his sides. Thankfully, it was five on one. Just enough for Blitzwing to blow off some of that pent-up steam.

Big Ugly Mauve raised a fist, a cry announcing his first attack before it even landed.

That was a mistake many made.

Never give up the element of surprise for the sake of dramatics.

It ain't never worth it.

* * *

"_How_…did you get this cut again?" Nightfire frowned as he dabbed nanite gel onto the injury, optics flickering to the triple-changer seated on his couch.

"I bumped into the door." Blitzwing answered. "Forgot I had wings for a klik."

The scientist's pursing lips of disapproval could be felt a whole city-span away, let alone in a room. "There are no surface scratches with the cut, Blitzwing." The rubbing kinda tickled. "And your flight sensors should have alerted you with proximity warnings."

"Oh yeah?" The Decepticon stared ahead. "Guess they just don't work like that for me."

The rubbing paused. Then came a sigh. The Space Shuttle's fingers returned with kneading motions. It felt kinda nice, despite the prickling sensations nipping at the deepest part of the cut.

"…This shouldn't get in the way of your flight training. It's only your second class, no?"

And just like that, the "kinda nice" was gone.

"Why can't ya just shut up and look pretty?" The triple-changer snapped. "Is that really too much to ask?"

The kneading stopped. The warm energy field behind him withdrew, tight against the larger flier's plating. Blitzwing grimaced, and let out a sigh. "Look. You don't have to make conversation, alright? Just do what you need to do, and I'll get outta your wires."

Nightfire remained silence for a long moment. When the fingers came back a second time, they were unsure, half-minded. "This will do." The Space Shuttle stood up, and turned around before the Decepticon could catch sight of his faceplate. "You should leave now." The scientist capped the nanite gel. "It won't leave a good impression to be late."

Well, damn. The pretty Shuttle wouldn't even look at him.

"Yeah." Blitzwing nodded, and loitered a bit before making his way to the door. "My transit will be here in a few, right?" He peered over his shoulder, visor pointed toward the larger flier.

"Yes." Nightfire replied. He continued to fiddle with the jar in his hands, even when the door slid closed behind the Decepticon.

The triple-changer's ride came a breem later. It was a Cargo Shuttle, he'd been told. The mech didn't greet him, so he didn't either. There was no traffic at the altitude reserved for Royal Advisors, and since the Cargo sported a badge, the trip was uninterrupted. Fifteen breems later, the Decepticon reached the Flight Academy. Stepping down onto the deck, he sighed, and watched the Cargo float away.

Most of the little chirps had already arrived. The deck wasn't nearly as busy. Blitzwing turned toward the entrance, and paused when he noticed a pair of humongous optics staring at him over the shoulder of a tall flier. It was Astro. He seemed to have forgotten all about the incident during their last lesson, curiosity abundant on his tiny, round faceplate.

His creator, some kinda Shuttle, was murmuring to one of the workers at the Flight Academy. His form was slightly hunched, to make up for their difference in height. His plating was dull, with patches of shiny spots glittering with cheap polish. Blitzwing was good at telling quality grades apart. Once a street runt, he had to know who to target.

He wasn't the only one good at sniffing out bad polish. The jets landing on the flight deck kept glancing at the tall flier, and many of them held their sparklings closer to their canopies. Some even went as far as to scooch to the very edge of the deck when they walked around the Shuttle. Well _that_ was a bit unnecessary. They could've just flown straight into the tower if they wanted to avoid the guy.

With a scoffing huff, the triple-changer strode forward. The Shuttle bowed and nodded, and the humongous optics studying the Decepticon disappeared when Astro was plucked from his creator's shoulder. The little chirp whimpered when he was passed to the worker's arms, but he did not cry. The creator let out a cycle of air, and gave his sparkling's cheek a brush with his finger before turning around, startling when he caught sight of the tank-former.

"Oh, please excuse me." The Shuttle dipped his chin.

Blitzwing shook his helm, and lifted his hand in a dismissive wave. The Shuttle smiled, before carefully walking around the Decepticon. The triple-changer watched the large flier transform and fly away. He was different from the jets that were here. Blitzwing had assumed that all fliers were pompous little glitches who sauntered like they owned the planet.

"Blitzwing, would you like to come in?" The worker asked, cradling a sniffling Astro in his arms.

The triple-changer grunted, and dragged his peds toward the entrance of the academy.

No. He was just gonna _stand_ on the deck for an _entire joor_.

* * *

II

"That's it. You're doing very well. Steady. Steady. Not too much on the thrusters, everyone. You have to master hovering first before you can start flying around, alright?"

Well, this ain't too bad.

But then again, they were in a glass container, which was actually stronger than it looked as Blitzwing had found out, fall after fall.

Lucky for his pride, he wasn't the only one who kept falling. Surprisingly, only a handful of little chirps could stay constantly in the air without dropping to the floor, and even those were wobbly and precarious. The tank-former had assumed that flying just came naturally to Vosians. Apparently not. It required quite a bit of work.

Astro, for reasons unknown, had decided sometime between the last lesson and now that Blitzwing was his best friend. He trotted after the Decepticon religiously, and only stared when the large mech jumped and cursed about little twerps who didn't know what was good for 'em. Seriously, it was downright dangerous. What if the triple-changer stepped on him?

Such concern was obviously not on the mind of the sparklet. And really, it would've been funny had it happened to someone else. As Blitzwing tried to balance in the air, he watched the tiny Shuttle plump down time after time on his aft. Seeing an actual flier fail harder than he has was sour comfort, like a bad joke that made you squirm and cringe rather than outright laugh.

Why the frag was it so hard to fly?

One of the tank-former's thrusters sputtered. He swore, and fought to remain upright in the air. He managed, but before he could congratulate himself, he realized, with a lift of his helm, that every pair of optics in the room was gaping at him.

"_What_?" He scowled.

"Bad word!" Astro whispered, and slapped his hands over his lips.

Oh for Primus's sakes. The Decepticon grimaced, and bit back a groan.

"Ok, ok. Sorry."

Who knew the disapproving stares of sparklings could be so effective in shaming a mech?

Class after class, they practiced hovering in the big glass room. Eventually, even Blitzwing and Astro could stay easily airborne. Then came the real test. Microburst brought them outside for the first time to a flight range. It looked like a large arena, with a domed bottom and long poles straight down its middle, interspersed. The metal was smooth like liquid, creating a warped reflection of the sky. It was so polished that if one were to fall, the only way out would be through flight.

"Alright, everyone. Remember what we practiced." The Striker hopped off the flight deck, and clapped his hands together as he floated. "Let's try to stay in a big circle, and if you feel yourself dropping, don't panic." The instructor smiled. "Take a deep cycle of air, and imagine you're sitting on top of a _big_ bubble. Even if you fall, that's alright. Just don't grab your friend beside you."

Yeah, like _that_ was gonna stop anyone.

Blitzwing was not the only student reluctant to venture into the flight range. The arena was steep. A drop from this height would probably hurt like slag. However, under Microburst's patient encouragements, sparkling after sparkling jumped off the take-off deck. Most of them found a comfortable hover right away, and those who didn't stumbled a bit before rising in the air.

The Decepticon shuffled to the edge of the deck, and peeked down. Aw frag-it. His plating bristled. Grounder weren't meant to jump from this high up, flight-capabilities be damned. Fortunately, a couple of little chirps seemed intimidated as well. Microburst did not force the wary to fly. The triple-changer watched him lead the brave or reckless in a stroll around the arena, surrounded by a bunch of tiny fliers who were fascinated with his tank barrel.

Astro sat in his lap, and poked him every once in a while just to giggle and swirl around, pretending to not have done the poking. Blitzwing didn't know whether to feel amused or insulted. In the end, he decided on tickling the clever little Shuttle, and laughed when the sparkling squealed and nibbled at his fingers.

The next class passed in a similar fashion.

Then the next.

Until finally, even timid little Astro slid off the edge of the deck, trilling in alarm as he plummeted to the bottom before picking himself up with a wavering flight path.

Huh. Well.

If a _sparkling_ could handle a fall…

Blitzwing felt the plating of his helm tighten.

Then he'd kinda _have_ to—

"Go, Blitzwing!"

A shove, and the triple-changer hollered as he tripped over the edge. He floundered in the air, and cursed the flight instructor all the way back to his progenitors. The slagger pushed him off! Oh was he gonna get it when the tank-former made his way back to the deck. The ground rushed up to his faceplate, and the Decepticon braced himself, optics flashing offline as he gritted his dentae and shielded his helm.

CLANG!

The noise echoed throughout the arena.

It startled more than a few sparklings straight out of the air. When Blitzwing could finally reorientate himself with where up was, Microburst was clutching his stomach mid-float, laughing his aft off.

"I—I've never-" The Striker hiccupped between his words, "-in my entire forty vorns of teaching…heard such a—a—" He spluttered. "…_Bang_!" He flipped in the air, and curled up in giggles.

Embarrassment smashed into him like a truck-former's fist. The Decepticon felt his cheekplates flame in gathering energon, and scowled, shoving at the floor to stand. He managed a half-crouch before his footing slipped under him, resulting in an aft-up faceplant. Microburst laughed even harder, and the triple-changer saw rage, searing heat surging through his fuel lines and gathering at the heel ends of his peds.

With a sputtering roar, his thrusters ignited. He shot up like a canon blast, and hurtled straight for the jet, arms outstretched to grab the Striker by midriff. Microburst yelped in surprise, and flung himself to the side. Blitzwing only got a split klik view of a huge, metal pole before he crashed straight into the obstacle, the impact rattling his world into a dizzying swirl of colours.

He spent the next several classes trying to grapple onto the smug little glitch who wouldn't stop taunting him about his fall. He ended up as the top student in his group of little chirps, though he wasn't sure if it was half as exciting as Microburst and Nightfire made it out to be.

Eventually, the Striker did get tackled. He totally let his student win, but Blitzwing didn't give a slag. His pride didn't care about details.

* * *

After another successful class, Blitzwing sauntered out of the Flight Academy, a bounce in his steps. He'd _nailed_ that obstacle course like it was made for—…well…It _was_ made for sparklings, but whatever. He still nailed it.

Looking left and right, he noticed that his ride hasn't arrived yet. No matter. The lesson ended a few breems early, after all, since everyone did well and finished before the joor was out. He could wait. The triple-changer took out a ration cube, and sipped while he watched fliers pick up their little chirps.

There was a low hum in the air, one that got louder and higher-pitched the closer it came. The Decepticon perked up, recognizing it, by now, as the thrusters of a shuttle. However, instead of his ride, it was someone else. Astro let out a happy, lilting trill, and ran toward the shuttle-former, arms outstretched.

Ahh. It was the sparkling's creator.

The tiny flier leapt up as his parental unit transformed, and latched around the big flier's canopy. Astro-senior, for the lack of a designation, laughed, stroking the little one on the wings before dipping his helm for a quick peck. Astro giggled, and nuzzled into the kiss. Blitzwing glanced away as he bit back a smile, and drank from his cube.

"…Wing!"

The tank-former turned, and found the sparkling waving at him in the arms of his creator. Astro-senior smiled with a slight bow of his helm, to which the triple-changer responded with a wave and a jerk of his chin, lips tilted one end higher than the other.

"Say 'bye', Astro." The shuttle murmured, and nodded when his chirp looked at him with wide optics.

"Bye-bye, Wing!" Astro turned his wide optics to his best friend, and waved some more, lips spreading in a grin.

"See ya." Blitzwing replied. He didn't even care anymore that the little guy decapitated his designation.

A few breems later, his ride pulled up at the flight deck. As he climbed into the cargo hold, he patted the mech on the side of his alt. "Hey." He greeted, hopping in. There was a droning hum in the air as the shuttle took off, then…

"Hey." A voice echoed. It sounded a bit rigid, gruffer than the Decepticon had anticipated.

"Aw, mech." The triple-changer made himself comfortable in one of the seats. "I'd always imagined you a sweet-talker."

A snort.

"No sweet-talkers in shuttles."

"Really? Nightfire's got a nice set of vocals."

"He ain't the shuttles I meant."

As it turned out, there were two types of shuttles in Vos. Blitzwing had no idea, but then again, he was still having trouble telling apart the jets.

The only frame he recognized without fail was the Coneheads, but it didn't take a genius to know who _they_ were.

* * *

The Decepticon mess hall was easily one of the largest facilities in the base. For good reason too. Despite overlapping shifts and the lack of real need for set meal schedules, mechs tended to crowd there at specific joors of the cycle. Things got rowdy during such times, but fights surprisingly didn't happen as often as bots would think. There were idiots who mixed their rations with highgrade, sure, but those just liked to get loud, and most of the time, such loudness was dedicated to complaints about how their energon tasted like slag.

Blitzwing tossed a glance at a group of such idiots at the end of his table. What did they expect? Ration cubes weren't exactly celebrated for their taste, and most highgrade 'Cons could get their hands on were distiller muck.

The triple-changer swirled his own cube, watching as a chunk of curdle flopped from one side to the other. It was kinda gross, but still better than the slosh he grew up with. The energon was a bit stale, but Decepticons did not waste fuel just because it smelled a little funky. Lord Megatron drank from the same tank. Sometimes, he'd even come to the mess hall, though the only ones who usually dared to sit beside him were Skywarp and Soundwave's runts.

Blitzwing sat by himself. He preferred it that way, even more so after he got his wings. The other grounders didn't understand space issues like he did. Some of them liked to paw at his extra appendages too, and they weren't always careful. Some of them pinched on purpose. Even a punch in the faceplate didn't discourage them. The triple-changer was getting more and more annoyed with Skywarp every cycle. If that slagger of a Seeker didn't sell out his own people, then mechs wouldn't be goin' around thinkin' wings equaled whorebot.

Lost in his musings, the tank-former didn't notice a group of mechs swaggering past his table until one of them bumped into the tip of his wing. He flinched. The impact stung. Engine a low growl in his chassis, he turned in their direction, and felt his optics narrow behind his visor when he saw just who it was that had jostled his wing.

It was Big Ugly Mauve, sneering at him from the head of the group. He was walking backward, rotating his shoulders with a glower on his faceplate. Blitzwing merely stared, a brow ridge rising. Big Ugly Mauve was so busy trying to look like a menace that he crashed straight into a disposal bin, the loud clatter making him jump in the air and stumble over his peds.

Blitzwing snorted a laugh, and turned away. There was quite a bit of commotion behind him as empty cubes fell and scattered all over the floor, rousing more than a few groans from the bots on cleaning duty. The idiots at the end of the triple-changer's table pointed, and started to laugh. Before long, a steady murmur spread throughout the mess hall, interrupted by guffaws all around the room.

"Hey mech, y'alright?" The triple-changer overheard.

"Frag off! I can—I can get up myself, damnit!"

Clatter-clatter.

Cubes bounced on the floor.

Blitzwing finished his ration, and got up from his table.

He strolled right up to Big Ugly Mauve, and, without even a glance, swung a step over the larger 'Con's frame to toss the empty container into the disposal bin. Big Ugly Mauve was trembling with rage. The triple-changer could feel the buzzing heat of his energy field against the plating of his thighs, which straddled over the fallen mech's faceplate. Even still, the tank-former didn't give him a single look, a smirk crossing his features. He strode over the bot, ped clanging against the side of his helm. It stirred a grunt, and the onlookers around them cringed.

Pedfalls light, Blitzwing walked away.

He hadn't felt this good in a very long time.

* * *

As the last little chirp completed a run through the obstacle course and joined the circle, Microburst clapped his hands, and turned to his students. "Very good job, everyone!" He said, a bright grin on his faceplate. "You have now graduated from the flight range. Do you know what that means?"

The little chirps looked at each other, and all zeroed in on Blitzwing.

Of course. He was default for any questions asked in class.

"We go outside now?" He shrugged in a guess.

"That's right! We can move on to an actual training ground! Isn't that exciting?"

A murmur settled over the circle. No one knew what exactly a training ground entailed. In the triple-changer's experience, training meant smashing the other mech's nose-bridge in before he could you. As it turned out, in Vos, training ground was a flight deck high-up on the tower, below it reserved airspace empty of traffic. There were no other decks as far as the Decepticon could see, which meant that the academy owned the entire tower and the space behind it. Wow, this school must pay two wings and a half for its facilities. Property was expensive this area of town, at least based on what the tank-former had heard.

Well, it didn't look _too_ bad. The lack of a bottom made Blitzwing a little nervous, but he certainly wasn't the only one feeling uneasy. Most of the little chirps were glancing at each other, some huddled in groups. A fall here wouldn't only mean a steady throb on the aft for about a cycle. It could very well result in injury or death, and, unfortunately for the triple-changer, he wasn't sure if Microburst had the strength to carry his weight should he messed up and plummeted into the black abyss of—

-Uh.

Yeah.

He wasn't gonna think about that anymore.

"Alright, class, remember what you already can do _so well_ in the flight range." The instructor stepped off the flight deck, and hovered, hands clasped before him. "This will be _just_ like it."

Except you can actually die, Blitzwing finished in his processors.

"Stay close to me, and if you feel like you might fall, feel free to latch onto my arms." The Striker Jet smiled. "I'll be here to catch you, so no need to be scared, okay?"

The sparklings looked at each other, and all turned toward the triple-changer.

Aw slag.

The Decepticon grimaced.

"Yeah-yeah, I get it. Y'all want me to die first." He heaved a sigh, and strode toward the end of the flight deck. "One cycle, when you're older, you're _all_ gonna look back on this and think: wow, a ground pounder actually learned how ta fly b'fore I did, and you're all gonna be _so_ _ashamed _that—" He swung a ped over the edge of the deck. His joints froze.

They just…froze.

He stumbled from the sudden seize of his frame, and the thruster of his forward ped caught right against the edge. He gaped down, intakes in a stuttering hitch. That's right. He was a grounder.

What the frag was he _doing_?

He stopped, looking right over the leap. His fingers trembled. He couldn't even pull them against his palms to form tight fists. His spark squeezed into a tiny, dense ball. His fuel pump thudded in his audials. He could fly. He knew he could. But this…

He was _way_ in over his helm with this.

"…Hey, I got a better idea!" Microburst spoke up, and waved at the rest of the class. "Why don't we all work on our wing exercises for the rest of the joor? Come on, form a line around the edge of the flight deck now." He nodded at the sparklings, grin bright and encouraging. As he turned to the Decepticon, however, his expression sobered. Floating closer, he rested a hand on the triple-changer's shoulder, and gave it a few gentle pats.

"Don't push yourself, Blitzwing." The Striker smiled. "I've been a flight instructor for a very long time, and I can count on my fingers how many have actually stepped off their first time out of a range." He placed his other hand on the tank-former's shoulder as well. "Don't let this discourage you." The jet held the larger mech's visor with a firm, warm gaze. "Unlike the sparklings, you're working with an entire lifetime of already established fears and considered norms." The hands squeezed a little. "It won't be so easy to let them go."

Blitzwing looked down, and reactivated his intakes. He nodded, and took his ped back from dangling over the edge. With a few more pats, Microburst floated away, to tend to the sparklings. The triple-changer was left alone. He stared at the long drop below, and, for the umpteenth time in his function, hated the ability of his frame to hold more than one alt..

Why couldn't he just be like everyone else?

What was the point in having two alts if he couldn't do slag with one of 'em?

A small hand on his ankle.

It jolted him out of his thoughts.

Blitzwing turned his helm, and looked down, at his side. Wide optics returned his gaze, followed by a quiet trill and tiny flicks of wing nubs. Astro peeked up at him, and hugged his ankle after a brief pause of silence. There was a glimpse of understanding behind the red panes of glass, as though the sparkling knew, but the Decepticon only let out a breathy burst of laughter, and bent down to scoop up the shuttling.

"What would _you_ know about bein' a triple-changer, huh?" He asked the little chirp, and chuckled when Astro latched onto his chassis. "But that doesn't matter, I guess." He smiled, rubbing the wing nubs. "Thanks anyways."

* * *

Blitzwing sat by the door into the tower, and watched Microburst lead a group of sparklings in a flight around the training ground. Only a handful of tiny fliers found the courage to take the jump. Most loitered on the flight deck, seated around him, avid spectators whose wing nubs twitched as though flying with the group currently in the air.

Telling the wary apart from those who would make the leap was simple. Little chirps who wanted to go on a flight always crowded at the end of the deck, peeking over the edge. The Decepticon didn't know how they could stand it. The towers of Vos did not have a visible bottom. It was just black where the light did not reach, high spires converging toward a center pit shrouded in shadow. As the cycle went on, darkness climbed, tendrils sliding and curling around polished, metallic walls. It would never reach the upper levels, but it would soak the rest, where it lingered like fog, until the towers were lit.

_Creepy_.

At least Kaon was consistent.

A squeal of laughter. Blitzwing jumped.

The sparkling who had fallen into recharge around his tank barrel startled. He tumbled down with an alarmed squeak, but the triple-changer caught him, and rubbed his wing joints when the little thing started to whimper. The tank-former sighed, helm flopping back against the wall. He was supposed to be learning how to fly, not how to babysit flier offspring.

Why couldn't he do it?

_Why_ couldn't he just leap off the flight deck and be done with it?

Ok.

Y'know what?

He's gonna do it.

He's gonna go straight up to the edge of the flight deck, and he's gonna—he's gonna—

A sigh, and the helm flopped back to the wall again.

Who was he kidding.

He couldn't even look down without prickling with fear.

Oh well, at least he wasn't alone.

By the end of that class, more than half of the students were still attached to the flight deck.

"Did'ya do it?" His ride asked as Blitzwing climbed into his cargo bay.

"Nah." The triple-changer shrugged, pretending he didn't give a slag.

"_I_ had to be shoved off with a ped." The Cargo laughed, rising in altitude. "Maybe you should try it. There's probably someone who hates your guts that'll do it."

The Decepticon sent the helm of the shuttle a glare.

"Frag off." He said.

"The only fragger who's fraggin' off this shuttle is you, dirt crawler." His ride chuckled.

Blitzwing grunted, and ignored the guy.

At least the flier was right about one thing.

He was a ground pounder.

He should just stay on the ground.

* * *

III

Class after class, Blitzwing sat out.

Sparkling after sparkling took the air. Even little Astro found the courage to leap off, after a worried glance over his shoulder at the Decepticon.

Blitzwing sighed, and stared up at the sky.

A deca later, he skipped out on his class.

Had to pull in a few favours to get monitor duty. No one wanted to be responsible for the science project slackin' off.

Soundwave looked up when he entered the surveillance room. However, the mech didn't say anything. He lost interest in the triple-changer real soon afterwards. The slagger probably knew why the tank-former was there, the fraggin' telepath.

The following deca, again, class missed.

Patrol shift.

Soundwave creeped him out, and who knows? Walkin' around for once would probably feel kinda nice.

Nightfire pinged him three times over the span of five cycles after that, and left him a message, which was listened to but ignored. The Space Shuttle had threatened a visit to Kaon. Yeah, good luck with that. Starscream didn't let his civilian subordinates visit the Decepticon capital without a damned good reason, and such damned good reason usually meant a direct order from Lord Megatron. And Lord Megatron, well…

Blitzwing was surprised he hadn't received a reprimand for his…avoidance of duty, or some slag. So far, the only bot on the Decepticon side of things who'd paid a visit was Shockwave, who only seemed to be curious about how he was doing.

And wasn't _that_ awkward. Shockwave trying to be social in private was even worse than Shockwave trying to be social in a group.

The triple-changer let out a cycle of air, and kicked at the ground, helm upturned. Here in Kaon, he could see the top _and_ the bottom of buildings, even _if_ chemical fume made things blurry higher up. His patrol partner was dealing stim-sticks at a corner. Bargaining now, from the look of things. Oh well, as long as they returned to base on time, no one would know or care.

For the rest of the cycle, Blitzwing stayed in his room. Ever since becoming property of science, his duties had evaporated to nothing, as though he was expected to practice flying every klik during his off-joors. In reality, he just picked away at the time in the mess hall, or recharged. Unfortunately, he was now all caught up on his missed sleep, so there was nothing for him to do but stare at the ceiling.

Ugh, this sucked aft.

The triple-changer got up from his berth.

Might as well go for a wash and get himself a polish.

Grabbing a cloth on his way out, the tank-former locked his door, and made his way down the hall. The wash-racks were located a few breems away on-ped. They were public, but at this joor, most mechs were in recharge. Good. He wouldn't be disturbed. Palming the door open, as it was a little stuck, he hung up his cloth on the stall, and activated the shower.

Hot water sprayed down, and steam rose. The temperature was always a little scalding, but Blitzwing did not mind. At least it was clean. His wings weren't a huge fan of the heat, but his wings can suck it. The triple-changer scrubbed at his plating, without soap. The cleanser had to be collected from a dispenser, and it smelled bad. One could always tell which mech used it when he passed by in a corridor. Some rubbed it all over their plating just to annoy other bots on monitor duty.

Blitzwing was in the middle of a good wash when the door screeched open, and in came a group of big, burly mechs. He watched them from the corner of his visor. There were eight of them, the last one visibly smaller than the rest. Weird. Why were they all here at the same time? The big mechs each went into a stall around the triple-changer, surrounding him, and as they parted, the last of their group came into view.

It was Big Ugly Mauve, and just like that, the tank-former knew _exactly_ what in the pits was going on.

He huffed out a laugh, and took his time scrubbing his shoulders. Did the slagger think he'd be intimidated just because the mech's got eight of his biggest buddies here to pummel out a grudge? Blitzwing learned his punch in _Kaon_. He's faced far worse. He shifted on his peds, and tugged down his wash cloth. Wringing it in his hands, he dimmed his visor, and glanced around to—

His wings stiffened.

They were crowding around him.

Wait.

That didn't make any sense.

They weren't any closer than before. So why did it feel like they were—

The stall wasn't wide enough.

It pressed against him.

The ceiling was low.

Steam rose from the showerheads, activated to full blast.

Walls of white vapour. Thick. Compressing inward from all sides.

Heat rose.

It suffocated the poor ventilation system.

His wings twitched.

The currents were erratic. There was no natural air.

Some of the drains were clogged, and hot water rose, pooling around his peds.

His intakes started to hitch.

His hands began to tremble.

Something ain't right.

His spark felt too swollen, too full.

He had to get out.

He needed space.

Air.

Wind.

Anywhere that didn't confine him, didn't rid him of the breadth that he craved to survive.

Washcloth clenched in his hands, the triple-changer turned around, and jumped when he almost crashed into a chassis. There was a behemoth of a mech before him, towering, helm reaching the ceiling, blocking his only way out. Panic hit him like a brick wall. With a gasp in his intakes, he shoved forward, visor flashing in fear. The mech barely moved. Large clamps for hands grabbed him by the arm, and threw him to the floor, water splashing, blistering, against his screaming flight sensors.

Blitzwing felt a cry tear from his vocalizer. He tried to push up, but a ring of frames caged him, blocking the ceiling. Kicks rained from above. Peds crushed his wings. A shriek of pain, and sensor clusters burst into red, bright alerts on his HUD, a whirlwind of sensory feedback that looped his processors into a never-ending vortex of terror.

Plating gave under the hard stomps. Seams ripped under the grappling of fingers. There was energon in his mouth, leaking from a cut on his lip. The water below him glowed with purple, spreading and swirling into the few drains that worked.

Blitzwing had lost all sense of time. All he knew was that eventually, the kicking stopped. The circle of mechs did not go away, though. They stayed right where they were, a wall imprisoning him in a bubble of steam and wild currents. Cooling fans roared. Heat gathered. The sensors in his wings sparked, and the torn appendages twitched, cascading stings as water flowed on top of them.

The triple-changer curled into a ball. He didn't even give a slag about what happened to him, as long as the spinning stopped. His helm felt like it was splitting in two. His wings were as though on fire. He offlined his optics, visor going black. Why was this happening to him? He gritted his dentae. Why the frag did it have to be _him_ with the Primus-damned upgrades and trials and new protocols and the fraggin' _glitch_ of alt.-mode cache that made him—

A hand threw his knee to the side, spreading his thighs.

Fingers traced around his interface panel, and he flinched, lifting a leg to kick the mech in the faceplate.

The leg was caught by the ankle, yanked aside.

Someone stepped on his wingtip, and he groaned, back arching in pain.

There was the murmur of a chuckle close by. However, when he onlined his optics, his vision was blurry. He couldn't see who anyone was.

"…Hey, you sure this is a good idea?" A voice asked.

No one replied.

"Anyone can—Anyone can come in any breem, mech. C'mon. Let's just leave 'im."

Digits dug into the seams of his interface panel, and he grimaced, hand latching around a thick wrist.

"Okay, that's—…That ain't what I told'ya to do."

His hand was pulled away, held down by a ped.

"Alright, mech, c'mon, stop it." The voice got louder. "Stop it. Enough!" An ugly mauve blob pushed through the ring of frames. "Y'ain't goin' that far!" It cried out. "There's a camera in here. Soundwave's watchin'!" An arm swinging toward a corner. "Y'wanna risk gettin' blackmailed by that guy? He's goin' have your skidplates and you can't say slag about it!"

The fingers stopped picking at his panel.

The circle started to mumble, optics turning to look at each other.

"…Let's just leave 'im, alright? We already bust 'im up good." Ugly mauve said. "If you wanna frag around, do it when I'm not here."

And just like that, one by one, the frames fell away.

Ugly mauve hovered for a while, but eventually, it too walked away.

That was about as far as care went between Decepticons. Blitzwing offlined his vision, and stayed sprawled on the wet floor.

His helm still ached, but the pain had dwindled to a throb when the wall of bodies broke apart and left. Now he just felt tired, and a little nauseated. He's lost some energon, but it was nothing a ration cube couldn't fix. He stayed exactly where he was, until the door screeched open again.

"…Oh Primus!"

Running thrusters.

Gentle hands wrapped around his shoulders, and his visor flickered online.

"What happened?"

Blue optics, and a pair of dark wings.

Nightfire.

"Decepticon conflicts." A voice based on harmonics. "Perpetrators: will be punished."

Yeah, they'd fraggin' better be.

Blitzwing groaned as he was lifted from the floor.

If Soundwave wasn't planning on showing his rare streak of sadism, there would be eight decapitated helms discovered in the disposal chute in the very near future.

* * *

For the next couple of cycles, Blitzwing stayed at Nightfire's tower.

The incident in the washrack caused quite a whiff of turbulence in Kaon. Vos probably would've gotten involved too, had Lord Megatron not stepped in and told Starscream where to stuff his nosecone. Regardless, the monarch insisted that the triple-changer remained in the flier city, something about better medical care for wings. It was probably true. The little white jet that visited had the swiftest fingers the tank-former has ever seen. Real careful too. The welding barely tingled.

Before long, the injuries mended, and disappeared. Nightfire had taken it to himself to apply paint on the new derma. Blitzwing now had shiny spots all over his frame, 'cause Primus-damn if the paint the Space Shuttle had used weren't more expensive than the triple-changer ought'a be should he whored himself. The scientist had offered to give the Decepticon a whole repaint, but Blitzwing declined. He'd rather not attract the wrong attention any more than he already was, what with his wings and all.

Next time he saw Skywarp, he was gonna sock 'im one.

A good thing about staying with a rich Vosian aristocrat was the abundance of energon. A bad thing was that he could no longer skip out on his flight classes. As the Space Shuttle kneaded nanite gel on his fading scars, Blitzwing stared out the window, trying to ignore the slight churns in his fuel tank. He didn't wanna go. Not that he had a choice. The reason he refused to answer Nightfire's comm. was that the scientist could probably guilt him into doing anything.

"There. All done." The large flier patted him on the wing, and stood up to put away the jar.

Blitzwing nodded thanks, and continued to stare out the window. Light streamed in, washing across the floor. There was a comfortable current, one that brushed against flight sensors. The triple-changer hadn't noticed it before. He didn't understand what that could mean.

"Blitzwing?"

The Decepticon looked up, and felt his wing joints tense when the Space Shuttle took a seat next to him on the couch, hands folding neatly on his lap.

"…What?"

Nightfire hummed, lips pressing together.

"I'm just…curious," The scientist cast him a wide-opticked glance. "As both your caretaker and your friend, as to why you are—…" He tilted his helm, "-_reluctant_, to pursue better control over your wings."

This was another reason he didn't wanna answer the shuttle's comm.. He _knew_ there'd be questions.

Blitzwing sighed, and looked away. He flopped back against the couch, and drummed his fingers on its arm rest.

"Won't you at least…try to tell me?" Nightfire pressed on. "Maybe I can help."

"Help?" The triple-changer snorted. "What can you possibly do to help?"

"I was once a sparkling too. I can relate to what it must be like for you, learning how to fly."

"Oh yeah?" The Decepticon rounded on the flier. "Tell me what it's like then. Why don't _you_ tell _me_ what it's like to suddenly grow a pair of extra panels and get asked to flutter around in the air like you were sparked to do it?"

"That's not what I—"

"If that ain't what you meant, then how can you _possibly_ relate, huh?" The tank-former sneered. "I didn't _ask_ for this." His visor flared, pinning the Space Shuttle. "Lord Megatron can tell me to jump into an inferno and I'd do it, but _you_?" The grounder shook his helm, vents spitting out a blast of air. "You just think it's _fun_. A little side project to tickle your processors. I'll still do it, 'cause I ain't got no choice. But I'm gonna make _one thing clear_ to you," He bit out, "I ain't doin' this for your _fun_."

Nightfire looked back. His brow ridges were furrowed, and his lips were slightly parted, optics full of hurt. Aaargh—Blitzwing hissed out a surge of air, and jerked his helm away. It was better this way, to lay it all out on the table. He was tired of being clapped at and told he was doing a good job when all he's done so far was _fail_ in what he's been instructed to do.

Fly.

Yeah…

Uh-uh.

No can do.

He was a grounder.

And ain't no grounder gonna flounder about in the sky where he don't belong.

Blitzwing laughed, and looked down at his hands, joined at the fingers hanging before him.

Except he ain't a grounder either.

Skywarp was right.

If he ain't a grounder, then what was he?

"…I'm sorry."

Blitzwing tensed.

"I'm sorry, Blitzwing. I didn't know that was how you felt."

He clenched his jaw-joints.

"If I knew, then—…then I would've brought this up with Prince Starscream. I didn't know I was forcing you into something without your consent. I would've never gone through with any of this had I known you did not want it at all."

Fans roaring, the triple-changer shoved off the couch, and swirled around to face the seated Space Shuttle.

"Y'know what? Just shut up. Seriously, just shut the frag up." Visor flashing in a glare, Blitzwing scoffed out a laugh, and paced the chamber, incredulous. "Just stop tellin' me what I'm goin' through, alright?" He looked at the scientist, vents huffing in breaths. "I'm _so sick_ of y'all posh-posh smart-afts thinkin' y'know _every_thing just 'cause you're _educated_. Well guess what?" He swung his arms to the sides, hands spread. "I'm a triple-changer. Are _you_ a triple-changer? If not, then how the _frag_—" He curled his lips, "-can you _possibly_ know what in the pits is goin' on in this thick-plated helm? _How_?"

Nightfire gaped up at him. He actually looked a little scared, shrinking back into the couch. The Decepticon let out another sigh, and rubbed his faceplate with a hand. He hadn't meant to yell. It just came out like that, as if shouting was the only way he could get his points across, especially when dealing with something a little more complicated than shooting someone in the face.

He cast another look at the Vosian. Nightfire seemed sad now, after the shock went away. Aw, mech. The tank-former grimaced. He couldn't deal with this slag. With a grunt of air, he turned around, and walked to the doors, which slid open upon recognizing his energy signature.

The air was cooler outside. The wind was stronger.

Blitzwing sighed as he felt some of the tension bleed away, and waved his wings, which helped his temper for some reasons. The current picked up. A surge of air howled past him on the flight deck. Whoa. It really was windy. Not that such was a problem for fliers, apparently. His Cargo buddy arrived a few breems later, and greeted him as though he hadn't been skipping out on his classes at all.

"I'm kinda surprised the class is still happenin'." His ride said as they soared toward their destination. "But I guess it's good for the sparklings to try out different types of air. Flight Academies have been ampin' up their criteria. With war and all. No one wants their little sparks to drop outta the sky in case battle happens again."

"Huh. That so."

"Yeah." The Cargo veered on his side as they approached the academy tower. "That's how most sparklings died. They get scared and they drop. Once they drop, well. That's that."

Yeah.

That's that.

Blitzwing stepped off his ride, and gave the shuttle a wave before walking toward the door into the tower. He was a bit late, but why would that matter? He was just gonna sit against the wall. The receptionist looked up when he entered, and gave him a nod with a smile. He replied with a slight jerk of his chin, and made his way toward the back, where the training ground was.

Microburst was already in the air with the little chirps by the time the Decepticon got there. Wow, sparklings learned fast. Most of them were flying around all over the place already. They were playing a game, as far as Blitzwing could tell. The Striker paused when he caught sight of the triple-changer. He made wave, asking the tank-former to join in, and when the grounder shook his helm at the request, the instructor only nodded, smiling in understanding. Blitzwing found his usual spot. He sat down, an arm propped up on a folded knee, and watched, humming in chuckles when the sparklets squealed in delight.

He stayed where he was, leaning against the tower. His wings protested against being squished against a hard surface, something they've never done before, and the Decepticon frowned, shifting on his aft. He felt like a wuss, scooting forward because a Primus-damned _wall_ was too rough for his sensors. His wings flicked in the air, and the triple-changer paused in his shuffling, frown deepening as his sensory grid caught on to something it's never before noticed.

It felt like a tickle against the tips of his wings, like a digit worming into a seam. Kinda uncomfortable, really weird. Made his tank churn, like he should be somewhere else instead of sitting on a deck. Why, though? It wasn't as if he had anywhere else to go. His ride wouldn't be back until a joor later, and there wasn't much to see in the tower, since the rest of it was used for storage, rented out to rich folks who had too much s—

His wings shot up on his back. His intakes hitched to a stop. Helm snapping up, he finally understood what that itching was, and watched, fuel pump thumping, as Microburst raced to gather up all the sparklings.

There wasn't enough time.

It was coming too fast.

The howling had not reached Blitzwing's audials before the wind slammed into the academy tower, and a flood of current swept across the training ground like an engulfing tide, flinging defenseless, tiny bodies scattered across the sky.

Little chirps screamed.

They scrambled, small thrusters sputtering, and reached for Microburst with tiny hands. The Striker flipped in the air, swooping in to catch them before they could fall. He clutched them tight against his canopy.

One, two, three…

Blitzwing counted.

-sixteen, seventeen…

His vents stuttered.

Twenty-three, twenty-four…

His optics flickered behind his visor, locking on to every pair of small, shivering wing-nubs.

Twenty-nine—

Twenty-nine.

There was one missing.

Astro.

Where was Astro?

Where was—?!

A whimper.

From the edge of the flight deck.

Blitzwing's vision zoomed to the source of the noise, and spotted two tiny hands, hooked around the ledge. They trembled, and, slowly, a little helm emerged, followed by another whimper. Astro's optics surfaced, gleaming with coolant. He dangled from the deck, too frightened to act, and the Decepticon pushed off, bolting toward the sparkling.

His fuel pump sped. Energon surged past his audials. He reached, hand outstretched, and bent forward to scoop the sparklet up, fingers spread. Astro couldn't hold on much longer. He yelped as his helm dropped out of view. His digits were slipping, ebbing from view. Blitzwing dove, a cry wrung from his vocalizer, and swiped his arm, just as little fingers plucked from the edge of the deck.

"Astrotrain!" Microburst's shout echoed between the towers.

Empty.

Blitzwing couldn't breathe.

His hand was empty.

The triple-changer looked up, optics stretched to their limits, and met Microburst's terrified gape. The Striker could not fly after the shuttling, not with armfuls of Seekerlets. By the time they called for help, it would be too late. Astro was plummeting down a tower with no other flight decks in sight. He had no chance for survival, unless—…_unless_—…

Aw slag-it.

Blitzwing clenched his dentae, and climbed onto his peds.

He was gonna regret this.

The Decepticon sprinted forward—

He was _so_ gonna fraggin' regret this.

-and leapt off the flight deck, a roar torn from his vocalizer.

For a klik, momentum sent him forward, floating in the air.

The lurch of his fuel pump as gravity yanked him down was the most nauseating sensation he has ever felt. But still, it wasn't enough. Astro already got a head-start. There was no way Blitzwing could reach him without some form of acceleration.

Aaargh—Primus damnit!

He gritted his dentae, and tightened his fists so hard his joints hurt.

If he was gonna die anyways, he sure as the pits wasn't about to let a spark so young perish like this.

'Cause seriously? A flier falling to death?

That was way too stupid to live down.

A grounder trying to chuck more than he could tank, though?

That wouldn't be _as_ stupid.

The triple-changer took a cycle of air, and locked his visor onto the sparkling.

Alright, ya big lump of a fragger.

Let's make this a _pit_ of a way ta go.

Blitzwing hiked up his wings.

They spread. Sensors sang in feedback.

The itch from before returned. It erupted into a cascading stream of information.

Altitude.

Wind direction.

Velocity.

Flight system status.

Programs flared online.

An alert popped up.

Secondary Alt. Activation?

He canceled.

He needed his hands.

With a burst of heat, his thrusters shrieked to life.

He shot down toward the black pit where towers converged, and flipped in the air, tugging Astro against his chassis as soon as the sparkling was within reach.

"…W-Wing!" The little chirp cried, fat drops of coolant flung straight off his faceplate from the air howling past them. "Scaredy…!" He clutched onto the triple-changer, voice pinched, and something inside the Decepticon squeezed, a sharp stab of pain deep in his core.

"It's goin' be alright, little nub." He said, and tried to smile. "It's ok. Everything's goin' be fine."

"—_Wing_!" The sparkling screamed. He ducked his helm the same moment a proximity warning flashed on the tank-former's HUD, as shadows swallowed them whole, darkness that crept up towers with tendrils that scaled the walls.

…Wait.

Tank-former?

Blitzwing felt his joints seize, optics wide as he watched the light retreat into the distance.

…He wasn't just a tank anymore, was he.

His secondary alt. blinked at the back of his processors.

Jet. Striker. It said.

He was a jet.

He was a fraggin' jet!

And what did jets do?

He swung his legs down, and rerouted all of his energy reserves to his thrusters.

They flew, Primus-damnit.

They fraggin' _flew_.

With a roar, he activated his thruster-system to full power. His vocalizer stung with spits of static, but his cry rang regardless, coupled with the high-pitched wail of the sparkling in his arms. The air popped as it burned. Heat rose. Wind screeched past the triple-changer's audials, and the light came rushing back, a smack of white that blinded the Decepticon, who jolted in a grunt and offlined his visual sensors.

They kept going. Blitzwing had no idea where.

It wasn't until small hands tapped him on the chassis did he online his visor again, which peeked at their surroundings before intakes reactivating with a gasp.

Oh slag.

They went too far up.

Cutting down the power, the jet-former found a comfortable float, and looked out at the city, an even spread of glowing towers stretching far into the distance. At the horizon was a faint line of shadow. The labyrinth, which did not glow, but was lit by the star clouds twinkling above. Streams of bright, shimmering sand gleamed across the cosmos, paint strokes that embroidered the seamless, black ocean they inhabited. Blitzwing felt his breath catch. His spark stirred, warmth that oozed out of his spark chamber like liquid. "…_Wow_." The sparkling against his chassis exclaimed, voice hushed and fear forgotten. The Decepticon smiled, and let out a soft laugh.

Yeah.

He thought.

_Wow_, indeed.

Someone was approaching them from behind. Blitzwing turned, just in time to see a jet swerve around in a transformation before sliding to a hover above them. Astro cooed in amazement. The Decepticon snorted. Show-off. The jet wore a stern expression on his faceplate, and his wings were held in a way that looked mighty uncomfortable. It wasn't until the triple-changer recognized the fancy little art on the other flier's wings that he remembered who this was, his own wings jerking on his back.

It was the old Fighter Jet.

A general.

The one who'd fed Skywarp his ped for a prank he'd pulled in the Royal Tower.

Blitzwing immediately decided that he liked the guy.

"You are in restricted airspace, soldier." The general addressed him, voice clear and syllables articulate as he crossed his wrists behind his back. "You'd best descend," He lowered his helm to peer at the Decepticon, "before the interior guards arrive and bill you for violation of the law."

"Oh." Well that wouldn't be good. "Uhh, right. Sorry."

The general slowly arched a brow ridge.

…What?

Oh.

Blitzwing straightened. "Yes, sir!" Fingers pressed tight, he saluted the militant.

Astro watched their exchange, optics wide and fascinated.

Snapping in a turn toward the general, he saluted the jet as well, vocalizer blurting out a small, quick chirp.

The old jet's optics flickered. He tried to keep a straight face, but a corner of his lips twitched. He glanced away when he couldn't bite back a smile, and cleared his intakes. Blitzwing laughed, looking down, and cupped his hand under the excited sparklet.

"You should go." The general said as his expression sobered once more, though the gaze in his optics had since softened.

"Yes, sir." Blitzwing replied, and, with a nod from the Fighter, he began to descend, slowly, as he still tended to wobble while he tried to control his speed. The other jet watched for a while before flipping into a transformation, and shot off into the distance, toward the labyrinth. Astro waved after him, watching until the general was no more than a small dot before nuzzling against the Decepticon's chassis, tiny fingers tracing the streaks of bright paint on rough plating.

By the time they returned to the Flight Academy, Astro's creators had already arrived. The little chirp leapt toward his parental units as soon as he laid optics on them, and the family stayed in an embrace for breems, despite being out in public near a busy traffic junction. They weren't the only ones huddled together murmuring in soft voices. The class ended early, and the other creators came as well. Blitzwing stood in a forest of twitching wings all by himself, squirming on his peds. Well if this ain't awkward…He blew out a sigh, and looked up at the sky.

He felt kinda bad for what he'd said to the pretty Space Shuttle.

* * *

IV

Blitzwing barged into the mess hall, intent plastered all over his faceplate. His visor swept across the massive chamber, and easily picked out its target before he strode toward the mech, wings flanking his sides in a high perk. Really, finding Big Ugly Mauve wasn't that hard. There wasn't a single Decepticon other than him who wore that colour. It stuck out like a beam. A beam of ugly. In this case, a beam of ugly that he wanted to see. Within kliks, he was standing before the bot, lips curled and hands on his hips.

"I fraggin' hate your stinkin' guts." The triple-changer spat out, not giving Big Ugly Mauve even a chance to speak. "Ya got stupid little covers on your vents, and your optics are crossed, like an idiot, 'cause you're a slaggin' idiot." His voice rang inside the quiet room. "You got a flap on your aft 'cause Primus knows why, and y'got the ugliest fraggin' paintjob I have ever seen." He sneered, optics narrowing to slits. "Glitchin' heap of scrap…Ya want a cube?" He asked, vents in a grunt.

Big Ugly Mauve stared.

For a moment, his optics kept glancing sideways, but eventually, he remembered that his pride was at stake, so he blew out some air, and lifted his chin. "Make it two." He sneered back, baring his dentae.

Blitzwing gave him a once-over. "Slagger." He grumbled, and turned around, walking toward the dispensers.

"Glitch." Big Ugly called back.

"Cable-suck."

"Exhast-frag."

"Wing-jerk."

A pause.

Blitzwing filled the cubes, a smug smirk tilting his lips.

"Wing-jerk." Big Ugly repeated. "…What the frag's a wing-jerk?"

The triple-changer huffed a laugh, and balanced the cubes in his arms. He tossed a look over his shoulder. "Y'aint gonna find that out with _me_." He said.

…And almost dropped the cubes in shock when he suddenly realized why the hall was abnormally quiet, and why Big Ugly kept glancing to the side.

_Lord Megatron_ was sitting at one of the tables. He was staring at the jet-former, a hand leisurely wrapped around his own cube.

Oh.

Well.

Damn.

This was…unexpected.

Blitzwing flinched, shoulders tensing. He shuffled on his peds, and gave his leader an awkward bow, to which the ex-gladiator returned with a nod. Skywarp was sitting beside their commander, a wide grin splitting his faceplate. The Seeker waved, but the triple-changer only sent him a glare before scurrying back to Big Ugly's table, wings tucked low on his back.

"So, as I was sayin'," Blitzwing heard the little slag of a teleporter babble as he passed by, "All Seekers have hotspots on their wings that are at the same places."

Lord Megatron hummed, and took a drink from his cube.

"If ya know where to _touch_," The glitch with wings leered, "not even '_Screamer_ can—"

"Starscream."

"-whatever. Not even _he_ can resist."

As Blitzwing handed the cubes to Big Ugly Mauve, he swore by his wings that he was gonna knock the Seeker one. Whether Lord Megatron decided to use that little bit of knowledge or not was not important. Didn't the stupid purple aft realize that the _entire mess hall_ was listening in?

Perverted fraggers.

The triple-changer scowled at Big Ugly when the mech gave his wings an appraising look.

Shouldn't they be thinkin' about how to kill Autobots?

* * *

Approaching Nightfire outside of official business was practically impossible. Usually, Blitzwing was dropped off at the Space Shuttle's tower before his flight lessons. However, after their argument, the scientist had arranged for him to go straight to the Flight Academy instead, hence why the triple-changer was floating outside the tower, shoving aside interior guards as he shouted the Vosian advisor's designation.

"Nightfire!" The Decepticon dislodged the guards' attempts at grabbing his wings. "I ain't goin' anywhere until you see me, ya hear?!" He was causing quite a commotion, gaining the attention of more than just a couple of passing fliers. Eventually, Stormstrike had to call in the Space Shuttle from the labs. Flustered, the scientist stumbled onto his flight deck, and apologized to the interior guards before letting in his unannounced guest.

"What are you _doing_?" The larger flier's wings flicked, optics wide. "You're going to end up on the evening broadcast!"

"Oh yeah?" Blitzwing asked, not particularly concerned.

"Yes!" Nightfire exclaimed, lips puckering as his brow-ridges knitted into a frown. "Prince Starscream will be _very_ displeased with me."

"No he won't." The triple-changer looked around the room. "He'll be too busy. Battle for Tarn's comin' up."

"W-Well, still…" The Space Shuttle sighed. "Are you going to tell me why you dropped by?"

"Uhh, yeah." It was Blitzwing's turn to be flustered. "I uhh…I…" _Damn_ if it weren't difficult to look at the guy in the optics. "I…got'cha somethin'."

"Oh?" Nightfire quirked his helm, curious.

"Yeah. Uhh…hold on a klik." The triple-changer rustled around in his subspace. "I didn't know what it was until about two cycles ago. Found it when we sacked the city. Kaon, I mean." He took out a metallic orb, and put it on an open palm. "Here. Press it. Anywhere."

The larger flier glanced at him, and, gently, gave the orb a nudge. The sphere jumped in the Decepticon's hand. It hovered in the air, and a beam of light shot out, spreading wider as the gadget buzzed. A hologram of Cybertron appeared, a little fuzzy on the edges. However, the scientist gasped, optics flying wide.

"This is…This is a Praxian Gallery Viewer!" He leaned closer. "From the Age of Enlightenment!"

Really? Wow.

Blitzwing stared at the thing. He didn't know it was _that_ impressive. Should'a sold it for highgrade.

Excited, the Space Shuttle kept nudging the orb, flipping through hologram after hologram of famous landmarks on the planet. As he tapped past a frame of the Helix Garden, a dark, round object appeared, with two stumps on the bottom. The scientist frowned, helm tilted sideways. "What's this?" He murmured, studying the strange entity.

Blitzwing looked at the Vosian.

"Your aft." He answered.

As Nightfire spluttered and covered his aft with his hands, the triple-changer laughed, helm in a slow shake. "Nah. Probably just glitched." He chuckled. "I dropped it a few times tryin' ta figure out what it is."

"Oh." The Space Shuttle almost looked a little annoyed. "Well, you could've just said so."

What was that? The scientific advisor of Vos was actually capable of an attitude?

Headline material right there.

When Blitzwing's ride came, the scientist walked him to the door. Feeling exceptionally obnoxious, the triple-changer sidled up to the larger mech, and gave his right wing a pinch on the bottom. The Space Shuttle jumped, and let out the most high-pitched squeak the 'Con has ever heard. So, it weren't just the Seekers who were sensitive there. While Nightfire squirmed on his thrusters, not knowing whether to glower or laugh, Blitzwing boarded the Cargo, and waved over his shoulder with a wink of his visor.

Class went by very well. The sparklings imitated the maneuvers Microburst demonstrated with ease, and Blitzwing helped the instructor blow bubbles for the little chirps to catch. The joor flew by. Before long, creators were picking up their tiny sparklets to go home. As the Decepticon waited for his ride, a shuttle approached him, in his arms was little Astro.

"Hi," The shuttle nodded.

"Hey." Blitzwing nodded back.

"I just would like to say thank you, for saving Astro, on all our behalves," The larger flier bowed his helm. "If there is _anything_ my mate or I can do for you—"

"Nah, don't worry about it." The triple-changer shook his helm with a dismissive wave. "I would'a saved any little chirp."

The shuttle smiled, optics shimmering.

He was prettier when he smiled.

"There _is_ something I'm curious about, though." Blitzwing began, and when the larger flier tilted his helm, he asked, "Why don't you call 'im by his full name?"

The shuttle appeared to be a little startled at first. He averted his optics, and bit his lips.

"Oh he'll…" A shrug. "He'll probably get picked on. If his classmates knew." The creator laughed a little, the sound raspy, and dipped his chin as though ashamed.

Astro let out a soft trill, and hugged the canopy he was cradled against.

Blitzwing watched the sparkling.

"It's a good name, though." He said, looking up at the shuttle. "Kinda reminds me of mine, actually." He chuckled, and rubbed the back of his neck cables. "Though I guess he ain't never gonna be a train."

The smile returned to the bigger mech's features, gratitude a warm sparkle in his optics as he lifted his helm.

"Probably not." He replied, stroking the sparklet between the wing nubs.

Astro wiggled, and let out quiet coo, melting under the touch.

"So," Blitzwing broke the silence, "why _did_ you name him 'Astrotrain'?"

The shuttle gave him a glance. "Why did your creators name you 'Blitzwing'?"

Huh. The bot's got a point.

"Touché."

The Shuttle laughed, gaze flickering to his sparkling.

"…Astro likes trains." He said.

"Really?"

Sure wasn't expecting _that_.

Trains were such old transports. There were hardly any train-formers left alive.

The creator nodded. "He gets excited when he sees them on broadcasts." He explained. "It started out as a joke, to be honest, but he likes the nickname so much he refused to answer to anything else until we registered him with that designation." The large flier shook his helm. "Sometimes I wonder why I indulge him. Guess it's just hard for a creator to say 'no'."

The triple-changer hummed. "Has a nice ring to it."

The Shuttle looked at him. His smile grew into a grin. "You hear that, Astrotrain? Blitzwing likes your designation." He nudged the sparklet on the side, to rouse the little guy from his sinking to recharge.

The sparkling rubbed his optics. "…Wing!" He called out, his arms outstretched and lips in a big smile.

"Hey, it's Blitzwing." The Decepticon corrected, hands on his hips.

"Blitz!"

"-Wing."

"Wing!"

Blitzwing snorted a laugh. "Yeah-yeah. Look at'cha, bein' so smug." He poked the sparkling on his side. The little chirp squealed, and squirmed to hide from the tickles.

The shuttle laughed.

"…Well," The bigger flier took a cycle of air through his vents, "we should really be on our way."

"Oh, yeah, 'course." The triple-changer nodded. "Guess I'll see ya around."

The creator paused. "…Um, well, actually…" His gaze dropped. "Astrotrain won't be coming back."

"What?" Blitzwing's visor flashed. "Why?"

A shrug, the gesture uneasy. "It's-It's nothing," The shuttle shook his helm, "just…The Flight Academy, its expenses—…" The creator looked away, at the view. "Astro's transferring to another school." He said.

"Oh." Blitzwing didn't know how else to reply.

The silence that followed was awkward.

"…Thank you, truly, not only for saving him, but for being his friend as well." The shuttle spoke up, smile returning to his lips.

Aw, shucks.

"Train didn't want to go to flight classes at the beginning, but after his first lesson, he did, and I think it's because he likes you. He's really going to miss you at the new school."

"Uhh, yeah." The triple-changer rubbed his nose bridge, visor downturned.

Great.

Now he's gettin' all sentimental.

The shuttle took in a deep breath. He gave the academy tower a full sweep. "Good bye, Blitzwing." He nodded at the jet-former. "Live happy."

Blitzwing looked up.

"You too." He smiled, and rubbed the little chirp on the wing-nub. "Especially you, little Astrotrain."

The sparkling held his digit. His round optics were wide as he stared into the Decepticon's visor. Then he was gone, departing with his creator. The triple-changer watched, and followed their forms with his gaze until they disappeared around an intersection.

Well damn.

He thought.

He didn't even ask for their comm.s.

* * *

When Blitzwing arrived for his next lesson, Microburst was waiting for him on the flight deck, alone. A little weirded out by the huge smile on the Striker's faceplate, the triple-changer approached the smaller flier, steps cautious and visor focused. As he got closer, the instructor bowed a little, and waved him forward.

"Since you've been making such great leaps of improvement," The Vosian explained, "I decided, after consultation with Advisor Nightfire, that you can move on to a more advanced class." He led the Decepticon into the tower. "The original plan was to have you enroll in a youngling group. However, something else came up, and, to ensure the best results, I've made another executive decision."

They turned down a corridor. Blitzwing looked around, a frown on his brow ridges.

"Where are the other students?" He asked. "Aren't little chirps supposed to be here?"

"Their class has been moved to a different time," Microburst answered. "As for classmates, you'll only have one."

They stopped at a door. The Striker tapped on the keypad, and waited while the gates slid open.

Light spilled in.

Blitzwing winced while his optics recalibrated.

It was a flight range, one with a far more complicated obstacle course. At the end of its takeoff deck stood a Seeker. His wings were folded behind him, arms latched around his torso. He jumped when he heard the triple-changer and the instructor enter, blue optics flashing as he swirled around.

Microburst bowed, before turning to the Decepticon.

"Blitzwing, this is your new classmate." The Striker smiled, palm upturned in a gesture at the Seeker.

"Please say 'hi' to Firechaser."

* * *

**Notes:** I bet all of you thought I'd forgotten about Firechaser, didn't you. Well nope! I didnnnn't! ;p

Oh man, I had no idea an answer for an ask on Tumblr could've grown into this massive thing. It was hella fun to write, though. Got to have an inside look at what life is like at the Decepticon base. I got the idea of "little chirps" from the birds outside in the trees of my neighbourhood. I swear they sound just like little chicks. So cute. They give me fuzzies.

Anyways, hope you guys enjoyed this installment! Blitzwing has effectively wormed his way into my heart. It's totally some of you (you know who you are)'s fault that I kinda ship him with Nightfire now. How did that even happen? Gah! (Not that I'm really complaining.)

Were any of you surprised that Astro was Astrotrain? I'm curious. Let me know! A review would be great. You know I love hearing from you guys. :)

_Psst_. Interesting detail of the day:

Bladeflight addressed Blitzwing as "soldier" instead of "ground pounder". Wonder if that means anything.

;)


	4. Stormstrike: I-V

Disclaimer: Hasn't changed since last chapter. D:

**Warning:** OC-centric; hints to previous event of pedophilia and attempted rape

* * *

Stormstrike

(Not all battles shed the blood of soldiers)

* * *

_Timeframe: Immediately after the events of the Prologue._

* * *

I

_Beep-beep…_

_Beep-beep…_

Stormstrike stirred, fingers twitching, curling toward his palm.

_Beep-beep…_

His optics flickered, frame jolting as the small noise woke him, intakes a lurching hitch.

_Beep-beep…_

It was an alert from his message center, marked with red light.

Critical priority.

His ventilation system groaned. He pushed up, elbows scraping against the floor. A stab. He grunted, and lifted his arm. There was a glass shard embedded within the seam of his plating. He picked it out with his digits, and swept his gaze across the floor.

Glass shards, and a shattered data pad.

It sputtered, display aquiver. A hologram shivered in the air, a pair of young fliers on their first cycle of active duty.

Brushing aside the glass, Stormstrike drew up his knees, and heaved onto his hands. His arms trembled under his weight, and he stared at his hands, breaths deep and laboured. He shook his helm. The world tilted. He collapsed back onto the floor, systems grinding in a churn, and he stayed there, panting, willing away the dark spots specking his vision.

His processors reeled. A glut of coolant raced to his helm, a chilled wave soothing the heat gathering behind his cheek-plates. Clutching the floor, he pushed himself up once more, engine roaring with exertion. Clawing against the glass-littered surface, he dragged his frame toward the shower chamber, a slow crawl that huffed his breaths in short bursts.

The yellow-tinted smoke had gone.

It's been joors since the first whiff of something-not-quite-right had startled the general out of recharge.

Reaching the door way, Stormstrike grabbed its edges, and climbed onto his peds. For a moment, he stood there, leaning against the wall while his vision spun in a slow spiral. When his footing finally gained enough strength, he took a step forward, and activated the shower heads with a comm.-command. Water sprayed. Steam rose. The fans turned on, to cycle out the hot air and replace it with cool wafts of high altitude.

Stormstrike fell into the stall, landing on his knees. The water beat against his plating. He watched it swirl into the drain, and counted kliks until the haze cleared, until the world finally stopped moving beneath his thrusters.

Leaning back against the wall, he accessed the message.

:_The Royal Majesties are dead_.: Bladeflight's voice. :_Prince Starscream is missing_.:

* * *

The night air brimmed his intakes as though clouds of ice. Stormstrike ran across his flight deck, and leapt off, leaving behind a trail of water. The transformation was smooth. His engine growled as he pushed to full speed. He shot into the sky, spearing for altitude. Upon reaching reserved air space, he leveled, and blasted toward the Royal Tower.

The city was dark. Only the streetlamps cast a glow to the towers below him, dim outlines of bridges hidden in tinted mist. The smoke gathered mid-tower, sinking, an ocean of vapour. It rose and ebbed, shifting at leisure, the slow tide of poisonous fog.

Despite all, the silence was the most unnerving. Vos was ever living. It murmured the song of its citizens.

Not on this night.

Not for a city which had lost its spark.

Stormstrike landed before the Grand Hall. The doors slid open, recognizing his energy signature. The general strode in, wings held in tension and optics bright. A Fighter Jet was waiting, perking in attention upon his entrance.

"General Stormstrike," He knocked a fist against his canopy, right above his spark chamber. "General Bladeflight is waiting, Top Tower."

With a curt nod, the Striker headed for a side corridor. The floor gleamed like liquid, smeared with dried patches of pooling energon. There were soldiers, clearing the dead. Most of them did not notice their general pass, optics wide and breaths hitched as they picked up the limbs and scraped off the innards.

New recruits, who have never been to battle.

Every spark remembered the first dead it sees.

Stormstrike paid them no reprimand. He walked down the corridor, and flew between the rising stairwells. Spirals of pearly steps only a selected few have ever traveled, they were stained, drenched in blood. The smell of gore got worse the higher the Jet went, and as he landed before the hall leading to the Royal Chamber, the air reeked, even though the bodies had already been taken away.

The doors were open. Stormstrike sped toward them, pedfalls gaining into a run. He passed the threshold, and jolted to a stop. The Royal Intended was standing in the middle of the room. His optics, widened orbs, pierced the shadow overcasting his faceplate, their light trembling much like the shiver in his fists.

The general traced his gaze, and found small puddles of lubricant, cooled and drying, leading into the berth chamber.

The Striker yanked his vision away. "Skyfire," He addressed the Space Shuttle, "Perhaps you should—"

"-_No_." The Intended croaked, and flinched when he heard his own voice. "No," He repeated. "I'm not leaving." He refused to meet Stormstrike's optics as the general passed him.

"Bladeflight," The Striker called, entering the berth chamber. The Fighter Jet was standing beside the window, arms crossed, lips set in a tight press. He turned upon hearing his designation, the movement brisk and clean. His optics flamed, cold pits of fire, and Stormstrike knew: everything he had assumed was true.

The lubricant on the berth, the energon on the floor.

There were tiny thruster prints leading from a purple puddle that had now dried. Large, heavy ones followed, and, on the wall, was the unmistakable scorch mark of a cannon, military grade, capable of blasting through a flier in one strike.

"He's alive." Bladeflight's voice cut through the silence. Stormstrike looked up.

"He has to be." The Fighter gritted, and only then did the Striker notice his old friend's fingers digging into the plating of his arms, hard enough to dent, quavering.

Stormstrike nodded.

"He is." He said, just as his comm. lit up with an incoming request.

:_Flareshot reporting, sir! Border Patrol Squad Twenty-Nine._: Static, hissing around the words. :_We have located Crown Prince Starscream. I repeat, we have located Crown Prince Starscream._:

The general froze, optics darting up to catch the Fighter Jet's, who had turned from the window, arms dangling by his sides.

:_Where is he?_: Stormstrike asked.

:_Coordinates to follow, sir._:

A data-burst, and Bladeflight was already bolting out the door, hailing Pristinus on the Medical Line.

Stormstrike followed, as did Skyfire, whose optics have welled up in gathering coolant.

* * *

The Seeker youngling was still, sprawled over the chassis of a ground pounder. His derma, paint stripped, suffered melting burns from the acid rain. Patches of blisters broke from his plating, oozing energon. Skyfire shoved through the line of guards. Falling to his knees, he gathered the tiny flier into his arms, and shot off into the air, just as a pale Stealth Jet emerged from the clouds of tinted smoke.

Stormstrike watched as the Head Medic of Vos transformed, and fell in line with the Space Shuttle.

A scream.

Gunshot.

The Striker general startled in a turn.

Bladeflight stood over the dead frame of the ground pounder, arm still raised. He shot, three more times, until steam rose from the gaping holes in the thick-plated chassis, evaporating puddles of rain underneath the infiltrator. Hand shaking, the Fighter Jet aimed for the helm. Stormstrike's intakes hitched. He charged forward, and grabbed the wrist before the shot could fire, tackling the other general into the ground.

Water splashed.

It stung where it hit, leaving a sizzle.

Bladeflight thrashed and swore, optics twin bursts of rage. Stormstrike bore his full weight down on the lighter flier, and held on until the other Jet let out a strangled cry, optics offlining in a grimace into his shoulder.

"I watched him grow from a sparkling…!" The Fighter bit out. "I was _there_, for his _first flight_." His voice shuddered. "I'd held his hand to check the shower chamber for fable creatures." A curse, and Bladeflight's wings grinded against the ground, struggling for an agitated rise.

"I failed him. I failed _them_." The stuttering halt of ventilation. "I failed the _only duty_ assigned to me. I _failed_ to protect our _Crown_!"

"General Bladeflight, desist at once! This isn't about _you_." Stormstrike snapped, and gave the other flier a shake. "You are of no use compromised. Our city has yet been purged of potential threat."

Bladeflight grunted when water hit his cheek-plate, wincing and vision flaring online.

"Prince Starscream is alive. Our _Crown_ is _alive_." The Striker bent down, and pressed their forehelms together, hands grasping around the smaller flier's faceplate. "_That_ is what's important." He hushed, gaze bearing into his old friend's. "_That_, is our _hope_."

Hope.

Bladeflight stared.

He needed a moment, but he settled, and took Stormstrike's hand when the Striker offered to help him stand.

He never apologized for breaking into hysterics in front of their troops.

He didn't have to.

Things happened, and he moved on.

Such was the way of battlefields.

* * *

II

Vos was in lockdown. No one was allowed in. No one was allowed out.

Fliers away for business trips came home to locked gates. They'd argued. They'd protested. However, in the end, all those who attempted to fly over the border got a shot in the wings and a containment room to follow, so the angered cries seized, dwindling to lone jets circling the perimeter before turning tail in dejection. When news of the assassination and its perpetrator reached the public, hordes of ground pounders tried to leave the city. They were denied. There were fights. Some arrests were unwarranted for, but they were interior guard business, so Stormstrike left them alone, turning a blind optic when his squads brought in civilians, stasis-cuffed, for trade-over to the police force.

The most the general has had to do was give permission for a dorm tower to be opened for housing sparklings and younglings whose parental units have both been arrested. He had to assign a few teams to watch the tower, not that there was any real need, since the young ones were ill from the yellow-tinted smoke. The Striker did not understand why there was a sudden rush from the grounder population to leave until he caught a morning broadcast while gulping down a cube of energon. It was by mere chance that he saw it, flipping through the channels, a snippet of an interview with a red-plated mech who held a groundling in his arms.

"—_from here too, you know. I was sparked here, went to the academy, worked at the Archives._" The mech wiped his optics. His hand left his faceplate glistening with coolant."_I had my sparkling at the_-" Static. "-_Clinic. We might be Second Class, but you can't just refuse us medical care! Vos is our home too. Please help us!_"

There was a glimpse of the sparkling, a tiny grounder that barely stirred. His paintjob was dull and dotted with spreading webs of black – a sure sign of dying surface nanites.

"_In other news,_" the picture cut to the anchor, a smiling Seeker with a pretty faceplate, "_housing prices continue to drop, most prominently in the Western Quadrant. Many property owners have expressed their concerns. However, experts say that in an estimated time of one to two vorns, pricing should be on the rise once again…_"

The broadcast channel was smart to censor the name of the clinic. If it hadn't, the place would've been overrun by angry fliers within the joor.

Stormstrike felt a small pinch inside his spark chamber. However, he only finished his cube, and turned off the channel display. Every family unit with a sparkling was struggling to save their young. Without an effective cure, many would die, depleting the next generation of the Vosian populace. That mattered little, compared to a Crownless city. Prince Starscream suffered from the same affliction. He has yet left the med bay, placed under enforced stasis to slow down the effect of the poison.

Stormstrike left his tower, and flew toward the border. Morning court has been adjourned until further notice. Upon arrival at his office, he was bombarded by requests for his time, which he had none. First shift passed in a blur, and when a squad member knocked on his door to deliver his mid-cycle energon, the Striker general already had his faceplate in his hands, rubbing his optics in attempts to avoid an incoming migraine.

"…Commander?" The squad member lingered after putting down the cube.

"Yes?" Stormstrike stared at the energon shimmering in its container, not feeling even an inkling of thirst.

"Do you—…think…there will be a cure soon?"

The general looked up, and spotted the squad member, a Striker Jet, fidgeting with his fingers.

"Why do you ask?" The commanding officer inquired.

The Jet averted his optics.

"I…" He hesitated. "I-I'm sorry for taking your time, Commander. I will leave you to your break." With a salute, he left, strides swift as he walked through the door.

Stormstrike stared after him, even as the door slid closed. Reaching for the cube, he frowned in thought, and swirled its contents before ripping off the lid. Another busy shift later, he locked his office, and flew straight for the Royal Tower. Offering his ident-chip for authorization, he nodded at the Fighter Jet guard, and made his way toward the med bay.

There was only a nurse present when he arrived. A nurse, and Skyfire, recharging in a chair beside Prince Starscream's berth. The Space Shuttle has been neglecting his duties, but his sibling unit has offered assistance. From what the general heard, the Royal Intended barely slept in his own room anymore. He was unable to, haunted by bad purges unless in the company of the young monarch.

"Stormstrike?" A soft voice called, and the Striker turned, catching sight of the Head Medic of Vos coming out of his office. Pristinus smiled, and dipped in a small bow. His optics were dimmer than usual, but the perk in his wings was strong, so the militant chose not to pry, merely nodding his own helm in greeting.

"How is he?" Stormstrike asked, casting a worried look toward the Seeker on the berth.

"Under control." The medic answered, walking to stand beside his friend.

The general nodded.

"And the seal?"

Pristinus paused. Stormstrike could see him, staring, from the corners of his vision.

"There were…signs of strain," The Stealth Jet tilted toward his company, arms crossed, and lowered his voice, "but for the most part, it remains intact."

"Strain?" The Striker frowned.

"Yes. An _attempted_ entry." Pristinus explained, "It stopped before it could do more damage. With time, the seal ring will heal."

Stormstrike turned. He looked at the medic, and held his gaze, contemplating whether to inquire further. The moment dragged on. The white jet's optics shone, too bright. The militant could no longer keep their sights locked, so he glanced away with a brisk nod. "Good." He said. "That's, uhh…not all I came here to ask about, actually."

Pristinus quirked his helm.

"Oh?"

The general took a cycle of air, and held his wrist around his back.

"One of my squad jets asked about the cure." He elaborated. "He seemed anxious."

"…Oh."

There was a quiet sigh, a slow ex-vent of air. The Striker nudged back a ped to incline toward the Stealth. Pristinus rubbed his optics, helm leaning away.

"There _have_ been prototypes." The medic answered. "We've made progress, but we're nowhere _near_ a breakthrough." His pale wings dropped a minute degree. "Nightfire has been of great help, but there's only so much he can do. Medical research isn't his forte, and I've been running out of ideas."

The Striker's brow ridges knitted.

"Running out of ideas and _time_," He added. "Vos is on the brink of social unrest." His fingers tightened around his wrist. "Violence is on the rise. It won't take long for a riot to start from the ground pounders. We have to decide soon whether to keep them locked with us or allow them passage out of Vos to seek medical care elsewhere."

Pristinus's optics flickered. He turned, gaze wide, confused, and Stormstrike immediately knew he'd blurted out something he shouldn't have.

"…What did you say?" The Stealth Jet kept his voice soft, but the tension behind it bled through, most prominent in the stiffening of his wing joints.

Stormstrike bit his jaws.

"What did you say, just now?" The medic insisted, turning to face the bigger flier. "'_Seek medical care elsewhere_', what did you mean by that?"

"I _meant_—" The general shuffled back a step, though he tried to ease it with a slight pivot toward the door in pretense to leave. "I meant what you think I meant – there are only so many available clinics, and they've all been overrun."

"Stay _right where you are_, Stormstrike, and tell me _exactly_ what you meant." Pristinus strode forward, and latched onto the general's arm. "'Keep them locked with us or allow them passage out of Vos to seek medical care elsewhere'," The smaller jet repeated, "_How_ would keeping them in Vos inhibit them from receiving medical attention?"

The steeled edge behind the Head Medic's gaze was difficult to hold. Stormstrike had faced hordes of enemies grounded and armed with nothing but his bare hands, but here, in the medbay of a bright spark passionate for the wellbeing of others, he felt his resolve buckle.

"Due to the shortage of resources, clinics have been refusing grounder patients." The general grimaced, even though the tightening of slim digits on his armour didn't actually hurt. "We're trying our best at the dorm tower, but we're not trained to deal with any more than preliminary battle repairs." The Striker swallowed. "We don't even have enough for all of _us_, Pristinus. There are hundreds of fliers on the waitlist for a spot at General Med, but not a single berth has cleared so far."

The Striker had not intended that statement as a stab, but it struck like one nonetheless. Pristinus jolted. He looked away, and his hand fell from his company's arm, brow ridges dipped with a tight purse of his lips.

"…They will clear." The medic replied, voice low and raw. "When sparklings start dying, they will clear."

Stormstrike cringed.

"Pri—"

"-However," Wings plastered flat on his back, the Stealth Jet rounded on the militant, "that is _no excuse_ to refuse our citizens their rights for a chance to _live_." His optics flashed, widened panes of glass behind which a fire rarely seen burned.

Silence hung in the medbay.

The nurse busied himself with tidying up supplies, and Skyfire squirmed in his chair, wings flicking as he took an intake.

"…It's about time we held morning court." The medic looked away, and ducked his helm as though ashamed of his outburst. "And it's about time I attended." He added with a nod and a curt bow, a brisk dismissal before he snapped on his heels, and strode toward his only patient.

Stormstrike followed the departure of his company with his optics. He watched the medic work, then sighed, and left the medbay, wings slightly lowered. He didn't know why he decided to visit. Perhaps he had meant to bring this to the Stealth Jet's attention. Regardless, he'd forced a flier notorious for his complete disregard toward politics back into court, and that left a sour weight at the bottom of his spark chamber. Pristinus was an old friend. The general has known him since the medic was a battle surgeon. Doing the right thing has always been important, a core value, for the white jet. However, the Striker didn't think he understood that doing the right thing sometimes required selfishness for one's own people.

Before Stormstrike even reached home, a notification popped up in his message center:

"_Morning court in assembly, next cycle._" Followed by the Medical Seal of Vos.

A few kliks later, Bladeflight pinged him through comm..

:_What happened? The medic won't answer me._: The Fighter sounded irritated, voice gruff and words curt.

:_You'd best prepare to explain why generals should not be made to run a city._: Stormstrike answered as he landed on his flight deck. :_We run _armies_, for Primus's sakes._: He grimaced. :_Who _knows_ what _civilians_ want?_:

* * *

III

"No. This is non-negotiable."

"I am not negotiating."

"We stay in lock-down. Military-protocol. Any slip of information can be used against us in case of battle."

"As far as I'm concerned, Bladeflight, until war is of significant probability, we _keep_ our _sparks_!"

A pause.

"Iacon does not know the status of our Crown. It will _stay_ that way."

"They are our _citizens_!"

"_Second Class_ citizens. They are of no immediate concern to me, nor to_ you_."

Silence, during which Thunderblaze, the Diplomatic Advisor, made half of a placating gesture before sighing and looking away. Stormstrike stood next to a pillar. Before him was the central core of Vos, none of which was making even remote effort to put out the argument brewing between the Fighter Jet general and the Head Medic. Skyfire looked lost. Nightfire looked worried. Skywake was staring out the grand arc at the city, fingers tapping against his thigh. As for Xiphias, the Seeker Fleet general, he seemed to have fallen to recharge right in his chair.

That ancient Conehead should've retired at the end of the Quint War. Primus knew why he hadn't, and, even stranger, why no one told him to.

"Give me _one_ explanation I can take, general: _why_ can't we let them go?" Pristinus raised his wings, optics bright and expression hardened in a glare.

"Any one of them could have been an accomplice." Bladeflight retorted. "The investigation is ongoing. We can't afford to lose an integral piece of evidence."

"An _accomplice_? An integral piece of—" The logic clearly baffled the medic. "They are _civilians_. Civilians with dying sparklings!"

"_Our_ sparklings are dying too." The Fighter's gritted.

"That's not—"

"_How_, then?" The question cut like a blade. "How do you know there was no accomplice?" The general drew up to his full height, optics dimming to a simmer. "Has the hack yielded result, Head Medic?" He asked, and the Stealth flinched in his wings, gaze averting. "Can you prove to me that every ground-bound unit inside Vos is completely free of affiliation with the infiltrators?"

Pristinus ran cycles of air. His cooling fans whirred. His optics offlined, and he lowered his helm, brow ridges knitting as he gave his helm a slow shake.

"…No." He finally answered. "The hack yielded no result." Silence was thick in the gaps between his words. "Sleeper virus." His voice dropped, wings sagging on his back. "Corrupted his entire Central Processing System prior to impact." He trailed off , and when his optics onlined again, they were locked to the floor, upon which gleamed a perfect reflection of the splendour of the Grand Hall.

Skywake pursed his lips, optics still aimed out the flight deck. Skyfire kept glancing at a side door, the shortest route leading to the medbay. Nightfire looked at everyone in the chamber, unfamiliar as he was with the proceedings of morning court. Thunderblaze sighed once more, and rested his hands on his hips, a gaze of pity sweeping over the pale Stealth Jet in the middle of their circle.

Bladeflight was still as a tower, wings held perfectly parallel to his back. "Very well," He stated, optics peering into the medic's. "Until you provide substantial proof, Vos remains in lock-down."

Stormstrike has never been a fan of morning court, but even he felt ridiculous leaving the Grand Hall with such relief on the edge of his vents.

He wasn't the only one either.

Skywake has never been so swift to leap off a flight deck.

First shift passed in a blur. Mid-cycle energon tasted especially stale on the glossa. Halfway through second shift, Stormstrike shoved from his seat, and decided that he's had enough shuffling in an office for the cycle. He subspaced a few datapads, and left his post. His tower was already in sight when just the mere thought of spending his evening in solitude overwhelmed him with distaste. With a quick flip, he shot down. The general blended easily into what sparse traffic there was, and made his way into the Deep Towers.

The Striker weaved between vacant bridges, and swerved past abandoned streets. A rust-ridden grounder, picking through a pile of empty energon cubes, glanced up as the militant flew past, one optic dim and the other sputtering in sparks. Finding a bar was not difficult. Finding a bar that did not look like a prospect of tank-ache was. Three-quarters of a joor later, the general finally cruised past a place that at least _appeared_ a resemblance of clean. It was rundown, of course, walls covered in strips of grime from factory smoke. However, its sign was straight, and the flight deck was free of vomit stains.

Stormstrike landed, and scanned his own ident-chip at the door, as was customary for all establishments in the Deep Towers. Light did not reach here, and what few lamps there were buzzed, a flickering orb that barely eased the gloom of a refuge for the poor. There were a few Cargos littered about, nursing their cubes in shaded corners. A grounder was sprawled over a table, vents stuttering as he recharged, glass overturned and cheap booze dripping to the floor.

His interface panel was open, and there were drying specks of transfluid on his plating. No one gave him a second glance, the Striker Jet General of Vos included.

"Hey." A chirpy voice caught Stormstrike's attention, coming from the other side of the room. "Ya here to drink or stare?"

There was a Stealth Jet peeking from behind the bar, squatted down, grin wide, while he busied with his hands out of view. He stood up when the Striker made his way closer, and wiped his digits on a polishing cloth before tossing the fabric into a bin at the other end of the counter. He was a bit lanky, with just enough curves to be considered a looker. His features were all at the proper places, optics rounder than most with a pair of lips that stretched thinner when he smiled.

He cocked his hips, and cleared his intakes when Stormstrike stared at his little bump of a canopy a few kliks too long.

Stormstrike grunted, and sat down on a stool. "Home brew to start." He said, and wiped the table with his hands before rubbing his fingers together.

No dust.

Seemed like he's found a good place, as good as it could get in the Deep.

The Stealth Jet lifted a brow ridge at his order, and leaned an elbow on the counter.

"Home brew?" He huffed a laugh, helm tilting. "Dunno what kinda 'home brew' _you_'ve been drinkin', sweetspark, but home brew here is to knock ya out."

Stormstrike leveled the bartender with a stare. "Good." He said.

The little Stealth flickered his optics, and laughed as he sauntered to the other end of the counter before coming back with a cube and a glass.

The glass was clear, free of residue.

Impressive, the general thought while the Stealth Jet poured. The Striker took the drink, and ignored the little flier's smirk when their fingers brushed together.

Stormstrike sipped. The bartender watched.

The general kept glancing at his audience, but said audience didn't seem to notice his lack of interest in the slightest, grin wide and optics twinkling.

The Striker swallowed, and put down the glass.

"I'll call you over if I want anything else." He told the bartender.

"Sure thing." The Stealth Jet chirped.

Stormstrike waited. To no result. "Is…something the matter?" He asked, leaning a wingtip back.

The smaller flier shrugged. "Just wondering what you're doin' here. Don't see much of you Striker types. See _this_ kinda polish even less." He jerked his chin at the general's plating, which glimmered despite the dim lights. "You're a tower-top, aren't'cha."

Stormstrike took a long drink from his glass. His optics never left the Stealth's. "You don't recognize me?" He was genuinely surprised, since his image files appeared often on the channels, despite his great discomfort in seeing them.

The bartender shrugged again. "I believe in introductions," He picked at a groove on the counter, and flashed a look at the Striker's faceplate, "unless you're the type that'd rather have reputation speak _for_ you."

There was a slight jab in the words that made the militant purse his lips. "Stormstrike," The bigger jet put down his drink, and straightened his back until his wings flanked at equal angle on his back, "Crown Seal of Vos, military-class, Striker Fleet general."

The bartender grinned. "Speedy," He straightened as well, "bar-owner, Lower Wing, factory district 4." A slender hand extended toward the Striker, fingers pressed together for a formal shake.

Stormstrike frowned as he took the hand. "_Speedy_?"

Speedy laughed. "The more flattering of my nicknames, unless ya think 'Fondler' is more to your flavour." The Stealth winked. "Like it?" His optics twinkled when the general shook his offered hand. "Neither has anything to do with my _real_ designation, of course. If you're lucky, ya just might find out what that is."

If the bartender was trying to wiggle his way into a tower-top's berth, he was in little luck. Stormstrike let out a snort through his vents, and took back his hand, tossing the drink down in one gulp. "This barely warmed my tank." He frowned at the glass. "You sell this by cubes?"

Speedy's optics rounded. He looked surprised before a bark of laughter revitalized his grin. "Well, _well_," He slid the cube toward the general, "You really _are_ as well-travelled in the Deep Towers as they say you are on the channels, huh." The Stealth Jet leaned against the bar, canopy pressing over the edge of the counter.

Stormstrike took a sip from the cube. His gaze fleeted to the smooth canopy. "Deep Towers?" He smiled, and shook his helm. "I was once stuck in a trench with a unit of grounder foot soldiers, off world, one winged." He was not known for having a loose glossa, but there was no harm in indulging a curious, pretty Stealth. "No medic, mud _everywhere_," He made a sweeping wave with his hand. "And it rained and rained." Shifting on the stool, he leaned against the counter as well. "Luckily, there was a bot who used to be a distiller." He chuckled. "You'd be surprised by what he can make out of meager ration cubes."

Speedy quirked his helm. "Ya weren't rescued?" A slight frown appeared on his brows.

"Eventually, yes." Stormstrike answered. "I was three galaxies away from the front, so it took a while. Those soldiers had been hailing a pick-up for two and a half vorns by the time my shuttle came." The general paused, and his smile dropped a little. "Even now," He shook his helm, pulling back to take another drink, "I still can't believe how much convincing it took for the crew to take them with us."

Speedy watched him, optics bright and wavering. "…_I_'d believe it." The expression on his faceplate was somber, and the Striker paused, cube half-raised to his lips.

They stared at each other, Stormstrike taken back by the sudden absence of light bounce in the bartender's voice.

"These bots," Speedy jerked his chin at the grounder still in recharge on the table. "They aren't stayin', are they."

Stormstrike looked at the smaller flier. He closed his lips, and put down the cube. His optics glowed in the overhanging gloom of the dingy little bar, where reluctant sparks came to unburden their sorrows. Speedy was a civilian, a bartender, an occupation notorious for keeping the rumour mills of the city alive with gossip. However, still, there was a glint in his gaze, a shimmer of genuine concern that struck the general, as such quality was rare for a city on the rim of an upheaval.

Everything was speculation at the moment, but really, what was going to happen to the ground pounder population in Vos was obvious.

"No," The Striker said, looking down. "I'm afraid not."

He took a long drink from the cube.

"What I _don't_ know," He sighed, "is if it'll come soon enough."

Silence answered his statement.

Speedy kept his gaze for a moment before averting his optics to the counter, and nodded with a grim press of his lips.

Stormstrike finished his cube. He bid farewell to the bartender. As he travelled across the small establishment, he paused beside the grounder sprawled over the table. The transfluid caking his thighs had begun to flake, clinging onto scratched, green plating by a mess not yet completely dried.

The general pursed his lips, and reached into subspace. Taking out a polishing cloth, he wiped the ground pounder clean, and slipped the interface panel shut, giving it a nudge when it wouldn't properly close. From the corners of his vision, he could see Speedy watching his every move. However, when he turned to meet that stare, the Stealth glanced away, opting to pick at a stain on the countertop instead.

"What he won't remember won't hurt him," Stormstrike didn't know why he felt compelled to explain. "It's better this way." He murmured, and turned to the door.

He pretended to not notice the stares burning into the back of his wings as he left the bar.

* * *

IV

Pristinus found a cure. Prince Starscream was the first to undergo the treatment, as soon as all trials returned positive. With joint effort with Skywake, mass production has begun. However, for the cure to reach every clinic required time, meanwhile spark-failures in sparklings continued steady on the incline.

Every cycle, burial towers churned. The air around them rippled, and black fume rose from the furnaces, writhing spires of smoke engulfed by thick clouds overcasting the sky. The sharp odor from the smelting pits stayed trapped, muffled under the dome of heat. They stung, rousing tears from optics, until intakes stuttered and vents wheezed in coughs, cooling fans whirring in exertion to relieve agitated systems.

Stormstrike sat in his office, a cluster of data pads before him to review. The floor vibrated below his thrusters as cannons lining the border discharged, and an alert for an automatic message blinked on his HUD, though the general paid it little attention.

By now, it had become routine.

Fliers locked outside Vos were getting anxious. Warnings were no longer sufficient for keeping them at bay.

The Striker heaved a sigh, tight-lipped. He brushed a hand over his faceplate, and leaned on an elbow, optics a hooded glow as he poured over lines upon lines of text – bad news from every station on city perimeter. Grounder sparklings were dying in dorm towers. There was no place to keep their bodies. Riots broke out every other cycle, and casualty was high, as desperation made even the most docile a formidable force.

The economy suffered. Medics were overworked. An accident in the Factory District put energon production behind, stalling treatments, and sparks were lost, young lives who could have been saved had the dosage been followed through in time. The Council of Royal Advisors was scattered. The Crown remained in stasis. Vos was a mess, isolated in its chaos, and when Bladeflight came barging into his office, Stormstrike was in dire need for a good word, anything to lessen the stifling dread tangible even atop the artificial currents circulating the room, cool wafts not soothing in the slightest.

Bladeflight rushed in without announcement. He pressed against the door as soon as it closed.

He looked frazzled. Stormstrike straightened in his chair. The Fighter Jet's optics were bright, but their light was spread, unfocused, casting a sickly hue to his faceplate.

"Is this room sealed?" He asked, not even a greeting.

"Yes." Stormstrike answered, joints tensing. "Why?"

Bladeflight's optics flashed.

"Prime was assassinated."

The world stopped – the crinkling of ice as the air itself froze to complete silence.

Stormstrike felt his stare widen. His processors skidded to a stop, unable to decode an otherwise simple sentence to understand.

"…_What_?" He finally managed to choke out, helm in a sharp shake. "H-How is that—…_possible_? He's _Prime_!"

Bladeflight grimaced, and pushed off from the door with a growling ex-vent of air. "A _peace-time_ Prime." He spat as though disgusted. "The bot was a jeweler before the Matrix found him. Primus knows why. Good spark, but much too _soft_." He paced the office, dentae gritted. "He was practically defenseless. The Autobots found him cleaved in half, strung up from the ceiling in his quarters."

Stormstrike reset his optics. His fingers dug into the arm-rests of his chair, intakes a silent hitch.

Bladeflight stopped, helm whipping around as glowing panes of glass zeroed in on the Striker's shocked gape. "That doesn't _mean_ anything, though." The Fighter's lips curled as he strode up to the larger flier's desk. "We can't ignore the fact that the infiltrators were ground-bound." His palms slammed against the table's clustered surface. "Despite what Iacon claims, they remain a suspect."

Stormstrike stayed silent. He gave his vision another reset, and allowed it to fleet about his office, buying time for his processors to click.

"Would they really attempt to take Vos? So soon?" He looked up at his old friend. "The Quint War just ended." He frowned, a tense knit in his brow-ridges, and that seemed to surprise the Fighter Jet, stalling his urgency for speech.

Bladeflight's optics smoldered like ember as he studied his fellow general. "…That was thirty-two vorns ago, Stormstrike." He whispered, stare a firm pressure against the Striker's.

"Thirty-two," Stormstrike repeated, "compared to _hundreds_."

A gritted huff and a scowl. "Thirty-two is _plenty_ for greed to _fester_." Bladeflight shoved off from the desk, and resumed his pacing. He appeared to be waiting for a response, but Stormstrike had none to give. Silence stretched thin over the hum of the ventilation system. The Striker knew his company was losing his patience. He could tell the lither flier was fighting instinctual flicks in his wings.

"What do you propose we do?" The seated general asked, leaning forward and lacing his digits on top of his desk.

Bladeflight glanced. "For now," He said, "we keep to ourselves."

"Until when?" Stormstrike asked.

The Fighter paused. They stared at each other. Just as Bladeflight parted his lips, fists pounded on the door, and both militants startled in a jerk of a wing, the one standing snapping around on his thrusters.

The fists came down again, followed by shouted curses and sounds of a scuffle. Stormstrike shared a look of confusion with his company, and leaned back in his chair while the Fighter Jet general retreated to a corner of the room. "Enter." The Commanding Officer of Border Patrol called out. There was a hard knock, and the door opened. Spilling in was a Striker Jet, cuffed and bearing the badge of Border Patrol Guard.

Stormstrike stared, brows furrowing, as three more of his squads entered after the first, who had landed on his knees. Upon closer inspection, the cuffed jet was trembling, helm lowered, though the shivering of his wings was held back, forced to a minimum by will. His frame was littered with burns from military-grade blasters. His paintjob was vaguely familiar. However, the commanding general at hand could not recall where he'd seen it before, scratched and scorched as it were.

"Light Ray reporting, sir! Squad leader to South-East patrol sector twenty-two B. Long live our Crown!" One of the squads snapped his heels in attention, and saluted, the other two following his example. Upon Stormstrike's nod, he grabbed the cuffed jet by a wing, and yanked him forward until he knelt right before their Commander, bowing low and intakes hissing in pain.

On the side, Bladeflight crossed his arms. Stormstrike shared a glance with him, but did not ask the Fighter to leave.

"Light Ray, explain." He instructed.

"Sir!" Light Ray stood straighter. "Present cycle, second-shift, third joor, breem fifty-two, tenth klik, Offense was spotted mid-attempt in passing perimeter during enforced lockdown of Vos. Accompanied was thirty-five Second-Class civilian citizens, five First-Class. All involved have been apprehended. Offense has been verified as squad leader Flareshot of Vosian Perimeter Patrol Guard."

Shock stalled a beat of the Striker general's fuel pump. A member of Patrol, aiding a breech in perimeter? During enforced lockdown? Stormstrike's frown deepened. The accused must be aware better than anyone of the consequences of his actions, not to mention the risks he was taking. The border of Vos was heavily regulated under normal circumstances, let alone now. Flareshot must have known that the odds were pitted against him, so why? Why did he try, fully aware of the futility of his mission?

"Light Ray, you may leave." Stormstrike addressed the squad leader. Light Ray looked like he wanted to argue, but a firm look from his Commanding Officer halted his glossa. The jet bowed, and took his leave with his squad members. The door slid closed. The seated general kept silent, the full weight of his optics bearing down on the kneeling flier's wings.

There was a hitch. The Offense buckled, a strained splutter of vents alongside the unmistakable whimper of a bitten back sob. Coolant splattered to the floor between the folded knees, and the cuffed jet swore, jerking his helm to the side to hide his faceplate in shadow. His wings, one missing a tip, pointed downward. He curled in, as though willing himself to disappear, and a tinge of pity flickered inside the Striker general's spark, prompting a low sigh from his vents.

Stormstrike waited until the sniffing quietened to a murmur before moving on to the questioning. "Flareshot," He began, keeping his voice leveled but without blame, "I don't think I need to inform you what will happen should you fail to give me a good reason for you actions, so I will skip the formalities and go straight to the point:

"_Why_ did you attempt breaking enforced lockdown with the company of civilians?"

Flareshot did not reply. His lips remained sealed, intakes in hiccups.

Stormstrike let out another sigh, quiet, tight-lipped.

"You'd best answer me, soldier." He prodded the injured jet, "I'm doing you a favour by giving you a chance to explain."

But still, the squad officer kept to himself, helm ducked and wings low. Stormstrike sent his old friend a glance. The Fighter had his back against the wall, arms wrapped over his canopy and ankles crossed. His lips formed a downward arc. General Bladeflight had no sympathy for those who'd betray his beloved Vos, mighty principles unwavering in face of whims of spark. The Striker, however, was more lenient. He placed his elbows on top of his desk, and studied the kneeling flier, once again plagued by the sensation that he's seen the patrol member before.

He's recollected by now that Flareshot had been the one to discover Prince Starscream. He recognized the mech as the squad who's been bringing his energon cubes, who had asked about the cure, but that was not all. The familiarity ran deeper, going far back. Stormstrike's optics scanned the soldier's wings. They were…on the smaller side, a little thick-plated. The fact that this jet had qualified the entrance requirements for military service was somewhat surprising, as there were maneuvers that required a certain breadth of wingspan, one that Flareshot did not have that would allow him—

And just like that, Stormstrike remembered.

Ahh, of course. _That_ was where he'd seen this jet.

"Flareshot," The Striker general began, "you are a part of my fleet." He leaned on his elbows, planted against his desk. "I have taken you under my wing. Therefore, I am responsible for you and your future." He studied the kneeling flier. "…Carving a place for yourself in the army hasn't been easy for you, has it." The squad startled, helm jerking up. "No Striker of mine has failed so many times to try again." The Commander smiled, and caught his soldier's gape with a patient, imploring gaze. "Are you willing to give this up?" He asked, "After all the trouble you've gone through to be here?"

That seemed to do the job. The pair of scorched wings started to tremble in earnest, and the wide, frightened optics glossed over with tears of shame. With a gurgle, Flareshot started to cry, vents in short bursts of air while his canopy heaved. "I—I had to," He whimpered between sobs. "If I didn't, then—…then my _sparkling_…!" Coolant washed down his cheeks. "…Then my sparkling will die!" The soldier bent forward, dentae clenched as his engine churned in a stuttering whine. His shoulders shook, along the hitching of his intakes. Stormstrike watched. This couldn't be all. The squad leader would continue.

And he did.

"Th-The treatment, it's too expensive for us." Flareshot took a shuddering breath. "I've already tried everything I can, borrowing credits left and right, but it's not enough." He sniffed, "Y-You see…my mate…has a weak spark. He's been working as a city-scape disposal, and you don't make much. Medical bills…piled up since we've bonded and conceived a new spark. It's drained him, and it's a miracle we've even managed to have a sparkling in the first place." The Striker bit his jaws, and offlined his optics as he swallowed before he could go on. "…We can't…have another. It'll kill him. If I don't—…If I don't save our sparklet now, that's _it_!" His expression crumbled. "That's it, and it will _destroy_ him, sir! It will destroy his happiness, and I—…I can only be _useless_!"

Tears fell to the floor. The squad leader wept.

"…He is…the reason," He spluttered through the gasping roar of his intakes, "that I'm even _here_. I'd already given up on being border patrol, but when I met him, he—…he told me I should try again, and again, until I can do it, 'cause I have a good spark, a strong spark, and what else does a flier need?" The jet hiccupped, and wiped his cheek against a shoulder. "I don't want to give this up…I don't want to give this up! I didn't want to break protocol, I swear! But I—…I need credits, sir!" He looked up, faceplate drenched and optics piercing bright.

"They offered a reward, the Autobots, for any information, however miscellaneous, so I'd agreed. I wasn't about to sell out anything important, sir! Please! I wasn't! Hack my processors if you must, but I swear on my spark I wasn't going to tell them anything that would jeopardize Vos!"

"Alright. That's enough." Stormstrike held up a hand. When terror flashed across his Striker's faceplate, the general smiled, hoping the gesture would reassure.

"A processor hack won't be necessary. I believe you." Because lying at this point would be stupid, with verification so easily accessible. "However, that does not change the fact that you have not only violated the laws that we all, as citizens of our city, have submitted to abide, but also the oath you have sworn, upon receiving the Seal of Vos, to protect the interest of our Crown, no matter the cost." The Commanding Officer of Border Patrol waited for an acknowledgement. After much shivering and sniffling, Flareshot gave one nod, helm lowered and faceplate hidden.

"As such, you must be punished." Stormstrike ignored the burst of a whimper from his soldier. "You are, hereby, sentenced to two deca-cycles in confinement, and suspended from active duty until stellar-cycle mark as of this joor."

Flareshot froze.

"Upon release from confinement," The general continued, "you will report straight to the General Medical Center, and offer your skills in whichever way your assigned supervisor sees fit." A sigh. "From my understanding, they can use as many pairs of hands as they can get. Is that understood?"

The kneeling flier did not reply. Joints seized, he started to tremble anew, most prominently seen in the rattling of his wings. His engine whined, followed by a pinched keen from his vocalizer. He curled further, until his helm almost touched the floor, where puddles of tears gathered, sinking into the seams between plating.

"Is that understood?" Stormstrike repeated, this time louder.

A hurried nod. A roar of reactivating intakes.

"Y-Yes," Flareshot bit out amidst the short huffs from his vents. "Yes, sir. Yes. Th-Thank you. Thank you…!"

There was a sour throb deep inside the Striker general's spark chamber. He sighed again, and nodded, before comm.-ing a group of his squads to take the apprehended away. Flareshot burst into tears as he was dragged onto his thrusters. He couldn't meet the gaze of his commander. Shame was punishment enough, Stormstrike knew. There was no point in sacrificing a good spark to deactivation in the brig for treason when they needed soldiers who were dedicated to remain one.

As the door slid closed, Stormstrike turned toward the corner, where Bladeflight stood.

"I'm surprised you haven't protested." He murmured. "I let him off easy, didn't I? Are you not angry?"

The Fighter Jet glared ahead, features cast in shadow. "Oh I'm angry." He growled, optics slits of rage. "But not at one of ours." He pushed off from the wall, and strode toward the door.

"It's time to call another morning court." He announced, pausing before the exit. "…There's a certain _Director_ I want to have a _chat_ with." The statement was hissed out through gritted dentae, and Bladeflight stormed out, intent clear in the high arc of his wings.

Stormstrike watched him leave. As the door slid closed again, he heaved yet another sigh, and rubbed his optics with the heels of his palms.

What in the pits was happening to Vos? Its Royal Advisors couldn't even stand united.

They all served the Crown. That had been enough. Now, however, "best interest" differed from one advisor to the next. Ideologies clashed. No side was willing to give. They needed a monarch, but to rely on a _youngling_? That would be far too pitiful, wouldn't it.

No matter. Stormstrike pressed his lips together. His only job was keeping the border impenetrable, and he was doing it well.

But at what expense?

Young sparks faded in the dormitory tower every joor. Doing the right thing was difficult when it remained veiled to him. Bladeflight had no such qualms. Fighter Jets did not _do_ uncertainties. There was a reason his old friend ran his fleet well, but a city was not an army, and such was frustrating.

With a push, Stormstrike left his seat. He's had enough for one shift. He flew to Speedy's bar, and spent the rest of the cycle recounting events back when he was a cadet. Five full cubes later, he staggered back to his tower. He was going to have a helm-ache the upcoming morning anyways, regardless of overcharge. Might as well have a happy night free of tossing and turning.

* * *

Tension hung in the air, enough to snap wings. Stormstrike stood on the peripheral of the brewing argument, optics hooded and arms dangling by his sides. Across from him was Pristinus, lips pursed and arms tight around his canopy. The Stealth Jet's gaze was wide, open, ablaze. However, he was not involved this time, an onlooker to the pair glaring at each other in the middle of their messy circle.

Skywake was visibly shaking, dentae gritted and optics gleaming with a film of coolant. His field was an erratic ripple of anger. It blistered when one got too close. Bladeflight stood before him, shoulders squared and wings spread. The militant was firm on his peds, but his gaze pierced with its brightness, two blinding pits that marred his demeanor of calm.

"Just what exactly are you suggesting, General Bladeflight?" Skywake hissed in a whisper, ventilation an audible whirr.

"Fact does not _need_ suggestion," The Fighter bit out, words clipped like shards of ice. "Sparklings are dying. Our people cannot afford the cure with its hefty price, one which _you_ set, Advisor Skywake."

The Director of Commerce stared, optics stretching wider.

"Are you—…_accusing_ me," The Seeker articulated, "of violating the ethicality of trade?"

Bladeflight merely looked back. His lips pursed.

Skywake's chassis heaved in a loud hiss of an intake. His hands clenched into fists, jaw-joints tight, and, for a moment, Stormstrike genuinely believed that he was furious enough to try punching a general in the faceplate. However, the civilian advisor managed to swallow down his urge, despite how agitatedly his wings twitched on his back. The Seeker took a step forward, and lifted his chin, optics gaping with the simmer of indignation as he spoke on:

"A _hefty price_?" He spat out the words. "Do you think this cure just grows on towers?" The shorter flier glared. "Do you have _any idea_ how much energon it takes to make? _Three cubes_ for _one_ healing dose, Bladeflight. _One_, out of _five_ per cycle, _per sparkling_." He snapped at the general. "The factories are already overworked, trying to meet the demand, and you want me to make this cure _free_? Are you out of your _mind_?" He swung an arm. "Workers need to be paid! They have families to feed, just as the medics do. You'll have a full-out _revolt_ on your hands if you cut their wages."

"I highly doubt it." The Fighter Jet's voice was cold, the hard, jagged edge of a blade. "You seem to forget, Skywake," He stared the Director down, "that the bulk of our people who are suffering come from the working class. To save their young without cost, even at the expense of one deca-cycle worth of wages, is miniscule sacrifice." The general paused, and shadows creased his derma as his expression turned exceptionally ugly. "I just hope you aren't making a _profit_ out of this." He bit out through a thin crevice between his dentae, an accusation that speared Skywake right in the gut.

The Seeker jolted, a full-frame shiver as he stumbled a few steps back, as though the claim had hollowed him with a cannon blast. "…What did you just say?" His inquiry was hushed, quivering. "…How _dare_ you…" Rage swept over his faceplate. "How _dare_ you accuse me of extorting our people!" With a cry, he strode straight for the general, and shoved the Fighter on the canopy.

"I'm paying out of my own Primus-damned vault here!" The civilian shouted, "Unlike _you_, Fighter Jet, I have _three_ creations, _two_ of which are lying in stasis pods at the Intensive Care Unit right at this klik!" His voice pinched. "And you would _dare _to—…" The shorter flier trembled. "You would _dare_ to stand before me, and speak accusations right to my faceplate?! What would _you_ know of being a creator, you—…you _mateless_!" He cursed. "How _could_ you understand the utter helplessness of a parent watching the spark of his young flicker as though fading to extinction?!"

The scream echoed in the Grand Hall.

Coolant fell, spilling over the Director's widened optics.

"…_Profit_?" Skywake repeated, and, as though strength had sizzled out of him with an ex-vent, shriveled back several skidding steps. "…Tell me, Bladeflight," He laughed, and averted his gaze, "What profit is there for me to have?" Helm hanging low, he offlined his vision, and wiped at his wet cheeks.

"…Half of everything I own lies outside of Vos." He whispered. The words died, before they even left their circle.

Stormstrike stifled a sigh, and gave his faceplate a rub. His migraine was getting worse. Skywake was not a noble. The current Director of Commerce came from a family unit of middleclass merchants. He did not have the financial backing of an ancestry. The Seeker, unlike most in the Grand Hall, felt intimately the pressure and threat of losing everything he had.

"Out of all of you, Pristinus is the only one who's made even the _slightest_ effort to relieve the financial stress of our citizens." Skywake took a shuddering breath, and lifted his helm. "And yet _here you are_," He sneered, "puffing your cockpit in self-righteousness and having the _sheer gall_ to accuse _me_ of stealing credits from hands already empty." His glare wounded, open instead of narrowed, unused as he was to expressing sentiments that ground against spark chambers.

"If I were you, general," The civilian gritted, "I ought to be _ashamed_."

Silence spread. Bladeflight, for once, was speechless, despite having his principles challenged and foundation uprooted.

"…Are we done?" Pristinus broke the ice, "If so, I have work to do." He turned on his heels, and left without another word. Nightfire was next to depart, shuffling away after a few attempts at offering comfort that never passed his lips. Thunderblaze glanced between the Fighter general and the Commerce Director. He sighed, shook his helm, and excused himself before nudging awake a recharging Xiphias. The aged Conehead startled awake, and looked around. Stormstrike was beginning to think he nodded off on purpose, as his steps were solid, walking toward the high, arched door of the Grand Hall.

Skywake was still staring at Bladeflight, lips pressed together. Bladeflight, surprisingly, was the one who broke optic contact, jerking his gaze away and looking down at the floor. The smaller of the two watched the Fighter, and, without any acknowledgement, snapped on his thrusters in a turn. He stormed toward the exit, a whiff of current as he passed Stormstrike, chin kept high by the sheer will of conduct evident in the tight stretch of his wings.

The Seeker reached the mouth of the Hall, a ped raised to step onto the flight deck.

"I'm sorry."

The Director froze.

Stormstrike swirled around, shock rendering his jaws loose.

"I'm sorry." Bladeflight said, staring ahead. "I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions without allowing you a chance to explain, and for that I offer my sincerest apologies." The general shifted toward the civilian, though his optics did not rise to catch sight of the Seeker's back.

"Please forgive me." He finished with a nod, and waited, still, for a response from his fellow Royal Advisor.

Stormstrike shook the gape from his optics, and turned toward Skywake. The smaller flier remained frozen, and a tremour had drenched his frame. His helm was inclined toward a shoulder, as though he wanted to speak. However, he only ducked his chin, and rushed out onto the flight deck, the wavering tempo of his ventilation system audible even as he transformed and took off.

Stormstrike watched him leave. The Striker followed suit a few kliks later, after a pat and a gentle squeeze around his old friend's wing. Militants did not hesitate to admit wrongs, but they had much pride. Bladeflight would keep to himself for a few cycles. He'd probably find a way to correct his mistake, and Skywake would learn to forgive him.

It could've been much worse. The Director could've tried punching a general in the faceplate.

Wouldn't _that_ have been a mess, Stormstrike thought as he flew toward the border.

It would certainly make his migraine worse in spades.

* * *

V

The next cycle, Bladeflight transferred a large donation to the Flier Welfare Program from his vault, sum unprecedented. The following deca, Stormstrike did the same, as did Thunderblaze, and many other nobles. The Striker general also went to the General Med-Center, and sponsored a handful of sparklings. He had wanted to offer aid to Flareshot's family unit. However, he was too late.

The sparkling had already deactivated.

Stormstrike visited Flareshot in confinement, to pass on the news. He did not need to, since no one more knew more intimately the death of one's young than a creator, but regardless, he went to express his condolences. Flareshot cried, clutching onto his commander. The general filed for his release, so he could find comfort in being with his sparkmate, not that there was much to be had.

The soldier's _endura_ was berth-ridden, the shock of losing his offspring plunging him into self-induced stasis-lock.

Stormstrike offered monetary support. That was all he could do.

Another deca passed. Bladeflight called for morning court once again. However, this time, it was to discuss the riots from Second-Class citizens.

"I propose we allow them passage through our border," The Fighter Jet said, surprising everyone in the Grand Hall. "If they wish to leave, then so be it. The riots are getting out of hand, and Vos does not need more loss."

A murmur of agreement passed around the circle. However, just as Stormstrike was about to contact his squads, a latecomer landed on the flight deck.

It was Skyfire.

And carried in his arms was a small Seeker.

Prince Starscream.

Shock permeated the hall. No one was expecting the arrival of their Crown. Skyfire walked forward. He passed the threshold. Bladeflight was the first to snap out of their collective stupor.

"All hail Prince Starscream!" He announced, and fell to his knees. His voice jolted every pair of wings into action. Advisors echoed his cry. They knelt down, helm lowered. Stormstrike felt his hand shake, most prominently in the fingertips, down along his outstretched arms parallel to his wings.

"Rise." Said the Royal Intended, and they all shuffled back onto their peds, a slight bow in their posture as the white Space Shuttle walked down the hall.

"…_Wait_."

A tiny voice, a mere whisper.

Skyfire paused. Slowly, he crouched down, bending in one knee. Two clicks of thrusters against the floor. The young monarch stood, unmoving for a moment, before taking a few steps forward. His back was to Stormstrike. However, the general knew, precisely, what the youngling was looking at when he paused in his steps.

At the end of the hall, on a raised platform, was only one throne.

One.

Where there had once been two.

The throne had already been refurnished, a fresh layer of polish with another set of cushions.

Such an occasion should've been celebrated. However, as the small pair of wings shivered and drooped down, Stormstrike could only feel pain, a dull soreness that spread like melting ice at the core of his spark.

Prince Starscream did not comment. He lowered his helm, kept still for a moment, and resumed his walk, step by step until he ascended the stairs.

There was a stool in front of the throne.

The young Seeker had to _climb_ to settle into his seat.

Stormstrike watched, dentae clenched.

The monarch's hands could not even reach both arm rests at the same time. He kept them folded over his thighs instead, optics staring out of the arched doorway, over the helms of his loyal subordinates still in a bow.

The Grand Hall was silent.

The air pressed on wings.

The little flier on the throne stared ahead, out at the city he now ruled, where the light streamed in, and his lips parted, with a minute quiver.

"…The grounders," Prince Starscream spoke, "evict them."

Silence buzzed between his hushed words.

"The streets," He said, "I want them demolished."

His voice was barely a whisper, yet it carried, as his tower was silent now, attentive to his every whim and command.

"…I—…I want…" The youngling's brow ridges knitted, "…I want a…_wall_, around us."

His wings began to shake.

"I want a fortress."

He curled inward.

"To keep _them_ out."

He wrapped his arms around his chassis, tiny, slim fingers digging into the white plating of his arms.

"…It will be done, your Majesty." Skyfire was the one who answered, bowing with his right hand pressed against his canopy, over his spark. "…My Crown." He added, and his optics blazed, piercing blue frosted with the sharp glint of ice.

One by one, advisors joined his bow. Stormstrike followed suit. Bladeflight kneeled.

Their prince did not acknowledge them, as though he could not see. He continued to look ahead, over their wings, and his gaze stayed, on the glimpse of his city, his Vos, outside the high arch of his Grand Hall. His arms could yet grasp onto the armrests. His wings could not reach the back of his throne. His peds hung limp over the footstool. Their tips barely brushed against it, far as it was from his thin limbs.

"…Skyfire…" He called out, the sound a mere shiver of sound. "S-Skyfire…I'm _cold_…!" A whimper, and the Seeker doubled over, pulling his knees against his canopy to hide his face. Skyfire rushed up to the platform, and gathered the monarch into his arms. The Royal Intended rubbed circles on trembling wings as he whispered words of comfort to the small Seeker shuddering on the throne to their city.

Stormstrike watched, and his spark ached.

Too young, he thought, digits digging into the grooves of his canopy.

Much…too young.

* * *

**Notes: **Primus did this take a long time to finish. I feel like the quality of this significantly dwindled toward the end, most likely because the first few pages were written about two months ago while the rest was churned out in bits and pieces. I apologize if it felt choppy. If you haven't noticed anything though…Good. Stay that way. Haha! ;p

In case of any confusion, since the following topic was embedded as a detail I'm not sure if everyone would catch: The crime Flareshot had committed was treason to Vos and Crown, one of the very few offenses that meant life sentence to the brig, practically death penalty for a flier. If anyone recalls (and I don't expect you to, since it's been such a long time), each cell in the brig is a tiny box barely big enough to fit each flier sub-frame type, so you can imagine what that would do to someone claustrophobic.

Hopefully, this has given you some insight on how Vos works, and what it was like before the labyrinth was built. I definitely indulged in these OCs. Hope you don't mind. It's difficult to find a POV that would provide a fuller look at the city, and Stormstrike worked for this purpose, since his post allows him more freedom to travel.

Anyways, please let me know what you think!

Reviews are much loved. :)


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